#three words: olivia with glasses

[enhaflixer]

campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

-

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

-

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused. 

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

-

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

-

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

[esote-rika]

to talk is to bare | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: hurt/comfort, fluff Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately Content: insecure reader, written with early s2 Spencer in mind (glasses!Spencer rawr), reader wears makeup, implied bad relationships in the past, Spencer is just a sweetheart Word count: 2.4k A/N: entry for #lovers1kevent (congrats @mggslover muah) - the lyric prompt for this is “And I knew how you took your coffee and your favorite songs by heart, I read all of your (self help) books so you'd think that I was smart” from enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo. This was supposed to just be pure angst but apparently, I can't write this man as anything other than the perfect boyfriend.

“Well, actually, Dostoevsky intended the book to be a critique on certain schools of thoughts and ideologies, namely...”

You stare at your boyfriend, nodding along as he explains the intricacies and historical context of Notes from the Underground to you. His smile is kind and excited when he stops, looking at you expectantly.

“Right.” the smile on your face isn't forced, per se, but neither does it reach your eyes. How many times has it happened this month? It isn’t that you’re keeping count of all the times he’s corrected you—truthfully, you can’t, because you’ve lost count. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t even keep track of his corrections anymore, because he does it all the time. 

You remind yourself he's not doing this to deliberately make you feel stupid, your memory immediately calling forth all the times you've seen him correct other people — his teammates, the cashier at your favorite bookstore, a random person in the park. It's never pointed, nor is the act laced with anything but genuine, loving desire to share his knowledge. He's not like the men you've had to deal with in the past, the ones who jump at every opportunity to show off that they know more than you, that they're correct and you're wrong.

But this is Spencer. Sweet, wholly inexperienced, awkward. Half the time, he doesn't know how he comes across, and you've been dating him long enough to understand that. 

No, his corrections aren’t the crux of the issue. In fact, it isn’t even him. It’s you, and all the treacherous thoughts running through your mind. This damn book you’d read because you saw a dog eared copy in his satchel one day, pushing through pages upon pages of dense material just to catch up and relate with him, only to still come up short and have yourself be corrected.

The sting is still there, lingering and acrid in the back of your tongue. You cannot pinpoint it yet, this But it's Spencer Reid, so you grit your teeth and remind yourself not to take it personally. The words slip out easily. You could almost believe they aren’t lies. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The beam on his face is a reminder that not everyone is as patient, that he's come to expect looks that range from baffled to downright annoyed. Nobody else allows him free reign to talk like this, long winded rambles that get nipped at the bud with a sharp Reid. He smiles, beams at you, and this time the smile on your lips finally reaches your eyes.

“So what did I get wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he’s pulling you in as he answers, lips finding the underside of your jaw and the bitterness dissipates, sweetens into something that makes your toes curl, “Just a little inaccurate.”

Your body melts into him easily. “You don't have to sugarcoat with me.”

“I'm not, it's literature. You can interpret it however you want, I just thought knowing the rest of the context would help you with your opinion.” he's kissing down your neck, breaths ghosting over your skin as he continues to talk, and you sink into his arms, forgetting why you were even feeling annoyed in the first place.

You’re not sure if you like the color you’ve put to make your cheeks flush. It's always been a point of contention in the past, your exes saying you don't put enough effort in, so this time with Spencer, you try. Even though you're not the best at it, even though you feel a little foolish because it seems a little too bright despite all of your hurried attempts to blend it a little more. But it’s too late to change now. You don’t want to go through the whole deal of reapplying your makeup because that would mean running late, so you ignore it and head to the cafe quickly. 

Spencer isn't there yet. You order your drinks, his black and into which you dump an exorbitant amount of sugar. Memorization is his thing, but you've come to learn a thing or two about him in the time you two are dating.

He's a few minutes late, and when he arrives, Spencer’s eyes lock on you. Or, more specifically, your cheeks.

“That bad?” you tease, standing from your seat and leaning over for a kiss. 

“You don’t have the coloring for that shade of red.”

Your brow knits as you pull away. Attempting to hide the flood of insecurity that swept through your chest, you let out a chuckle. Soft, shaky, and accompanied with a confused, “What?”

“It makes your cheeks look a little inflamed.”

“Oh.” 

Regret fills your chest, settling in your lungs until it’s difficult to breathe. You should have trusted your instincts and scrubbed the makeup off. Shouldn’t have tried something new on the one day the two of you can go out. He’s probably embarrassed by you. How silly, being a full grown woman wearing makeup bordering on clownish. 

He must have caught the hurt in your voice, the way your body deflates because he’s quick to remedy. “Hey, what’s that look for?”

It should embarrass you, the speed at which he picks up on your emotions. But he’s a profiler after all, he’s specifically trained for this, but sometimes you wish he doesn’t use it against you. Gentle hands cup your face. Cold hands, perpetually so until you’ve started keeping them between yours. They tilt your head up. 

“Talk to me.” 

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you say is ever stupid.”

You smile, “No, I think we both know that’s a lie.”

He relents. He knows you’re right; there are moments where you don’t make sense. “Not stupid, just��” his eyes roam your face while he searches for the word to use as compromise, as though he’ll find it tucked somewhere in your pretty features, “Lapses in discernment.”

You roll your eyes at his fancy vernacular, the attempt to soothe his mistake. “I think I prefer the layman’s term.” 

Spencer laughs sheepishly, then presses his lips to your forehead, “I’m never using that to describe you.” he murmurs against your skin, and then, “I'm sorry.”

Antarctica could melt from the warmth in your chest.  “You don't even know what you're apologizing for.”

“I upset you. That's reason enough.”

You sigh, pulling him to join you on the plush booth seat you'd managed to secure for your date. “Well, there's nothing to forgive.”

He accepts the coffee you hand him, corners of his mouth curved in a gentle smile. He sips, and you stew in silence, knowing that you shouldn't be leaving him guessing like this. He'd want to know, you can tell by the way he's studying you, the way he wants to examine and turn over your thoughts and reactions like he does with everything else in his life. But he waits, lets you open up if you so wish.

God, he's perfect.

“I was just having second thoughts about my makeup,” you murmur finally, “And you kind of confirmed it. I told you it's stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. I'm sorry,” you wonder if he takes his coffee sweet to match his personality, this asshole, “It was an insensitive comment. And for what it's worth, you look beautiful regardless.”

“Inflamed cheeks and all?” 

He laughs, pulling you to his side, lips firmly planted on your cheek “Inflamed cheeks and all.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the blush after all; you're sure he's making you flush scarlet just by being such a sweetheart.

“Oh Spencer knows her.” the teasing tone in Derek Morgan’s voice normally makes you smile, but something about his tone makes you pause. You stare at the TV, where a new show is running, eyes zeroed in on the blonde actress.

“Spencer knows her?”

“Knew,” your boyfriend supplies, “Very briefly.”

Derek Morgan gives him a knowing smirk that has your stomach churning all the way to the end of the night, when you’re getting ready for bed.

You're in his apartment, in an old pair of his plaid pajamas and a t-shirt that fits you surprisingly well. It always makes you smile, his slight frame, the way you could easily steal his clothes and they wouldn't dwarf you too much. But tonight, Derek's words ring over and over again, bringing forth the image of her—Lila Archer, dazzling, perfectly curvy, an actress on a popular TV series… and apparently, a friend of his. You aren't really sure where this jealousy is coming from. He’s a trustworthy man, and you know he loves you. Still, the image of the beautiful actress persists, even as you climb into bed with him.

He's reading as he usually is, the low lamplight casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Without even looking, he shifts the book to his other hand, freeing up an arm to draw you to his body. It's easy, quiet, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your ear as you rest your head on his chest. The exact opposite of your own heartbeat right now.

“What's on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” It should be a sin, the way you keep denying your feelings. But it's just so silly, and you're a grown woman. Jealousy and insecurity shouldn't be consuming you like this, and yet…

“Please don't lie to me,” his fingers are in your hair, tangling deep into the strands and seeking for your scalp. They’re soothing and rhythmic upon contact, lulling your body into a sense of relaxation even though your heart still hammers at your chest.

“Why do you say that?”

“You usually remind me to use the overhead lights when I read.” fingers putting pressure on your scalp, traveling to your temple. He has you in the palm of his hands, “You didn't do that tonight. And your heartbeat's going at an abnormally high rate, even though I'm quite certain you didn't do anything strenuous before coming to bed. What's going on?” 

Damn him and his attention to detail, and the way he’'s learned your little quirks and oddities. He puts down his book and you turn your face to hide into his chest.

You chew on your bottom lip, reminding youself that this is Spencer, he wouldn't judge. “How’d you know her?” your voice is muffled against his shirt, “Lila.”

“We had a case in Los Angeles.” he pauses, as if considering if he should say more. Right. Confidentiality. You nod, accepting his answer.

“Must have been a high profile one then,” you muse, “Or were you just hanging around Hollywood studios with Derek?” It’s an unfair statement, but you can’t help it.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” You look back up at him and oh there’s guilt swimming in pools of honey eyes. “I mean, we kissed once, but I swear, nothing beyond that.”

You exhale. A kiss. He's kissed a TV starlet. 

This shouldn’t even be an issue. This is before you were even in the picture after all. It’s not fair to uphold him to some weird standard. You certainly had relationships before him. But none of them had been as stunning as Lila Archer. And if he could have Lila Archer, then what is he doing with you? 

“Hey,” his other hand comes to stroke your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles, “Talk to me.”

It's a difficult thing, being mature and communicating when you just want to stew, but god he's so good, you can't punish him for this, for anything. “I thought you said I was your first girlfriend?” you say instead, teasing him.

“You are, but you know, I’ve kissed before, and been on dates—”

“With Lila?”

“No, with JJ.”

Oh.

“JJ?”

JJ? His lovely, warm spring day beauty coworker JJ? He went on a date with her? And kissed Lila Archer. It’s almost ridiculous, thinking about the type of women he's had dalliances with—lithe, blonde, perfect, before he settled with you. 

“Yeah, I took her to a Redskins game,” he says, his hold on your face still light. There's room to move if you want to, space to pull away should you need it and god he's just so perfect.

“You have a type, huh?” it comes out unbidden, sharp but dulled by a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“With women,” you reply, trying to temper the snappy tone of your voice. It's not fair to lash out at him like this, you know that, yet you can't help it. It's habit at this point, a form of defense that your exes have all been too happy to participate, “I'm the outlier.”

And apparently, he's an outlier too because his voice grows even softer, eyes searching your face with an anxiety that fills you with guilt. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you sigh, arm draping over his waist and hugging him tight. 

He returns the favor, tangling your legs together until you're a mess of limbs under his sheets. “Then what's wrong?”

“Sometimes I just feel like—like I'm not good enough to be dating you.” there it is, whispered into his chest, striking straight to his heart. “And now, knowing that you could have had all of these — these women who could pass for models—”

“Angel,” the way he says the nickname makes you hide even further into his chest. He closes his arms around you, holding you so tightly it's difficult to breathe, but that's okay. Let him fuse your bodies together, let his breaths be yours too, “That's not true, you know that's not true.”

“Isn't it? You're so — you. Intelligent, well decorated in academia, an an elite FBI unit…”

He laughs, “I’m also an endlessly annoying know it all, I failed my gun license exam more than once, I don't have abs—”

“You don't need abs,” you counter, fingers clutching on his shirt.

“Wouldn't you rather be with a guy with a six pack?”

“I'd rather be with you.”

He gently moves away from you, hands finding your face to make you look at him. “And I'd rather be with you.”

You pout, “You can't use my words against me, ‘s not fair.” 

He laughs again, leaning to capture your lips in the gentlest of kisses, “I want you, I chose you, and I adore you,” he's murmuring between each kiss, hands cradling your face, “And if you have these thoughts again, tell me, so I can keep reminding you just how much I love you.” 

➺ My masterlist | Event masterlist

➺ thank you so much for reading <3

[cuteandhughesy]

It’s You. ╰┈➤ AS37

summary: when your best friend needs a fake girlfriend for his cousins wedding, you are the girl he claims is his. after all, what’s the worse than can happen? well, after sharing a bed, an awkward conversation about sex with his family and an unexpected kiss, you and andrei are forced to confront feelings you thought you had been repressing.

[word count] 10.9k

warnings: MATURE! friends to lovers | fake dating | fluff | a lil angst | weddings | l kissing | reader is mentioned to have glasses | fade to black smut scene | drinking | mention of sex organs | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: the end of 2024, I put out a poll asking which players you wanted to see my write for (that I haven’t done yet) and svechy was one of the players you guys wanted to see! so I hope you guys love this 💋 this uses some scenes from a no-longer published fic—if it looks familiar, that’s because it is ❤️

🎵 perfect places by lorde, scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo, must be nice by ruel, breakfast in bed by nessa barrett, carry you home by alex warren, it's you by zayn, best friends by 5 seconds of summer, delicate by taylor swift, + always been you by shawn mendes

andrei already knows that it's not the brightest idea he's ever had. actually, refrain that, it's quite possibly the worst idea he's ever had.

it's just—the idea passed through his system and fell out of his mouth before he could even blink. andrei's mother and aunt had practically ambushed him on a three way call just over three weeks ago—8 a.m in russia, 1 a.m. in carolina—which already had him in a frazzle. but then they immediately started asking about the dreaded (dreaded for andrei, more so than anyone else, obviously) plus one attached to his cousins wedding invitation.

the wedding that yes, was in fact only three weeks away. and a plus one attachment that andrei still hadn't confirmed or denied if he needed. because according to his very empty left side of the bed, and the singular toothbrush on his bathroom counter, andrei svechnikov is very much single and very much not needing a plus one.

but it just came out before he could stop it.

‘of course i'll be bringing someone to the wedding mama and tetr! in fact, i'll be bringing my girlfriend!’

and know here he is, 2 hours into an 18 hour flight from raleigh to his hometown in a first class seat that, despite its expanse of leg room, feels all too small. it's suffocating for no other reason than his own doing and sneakiness that he’s drowning in.

because you're next to him, happy and sipping on your third glass of champagne—skin radiating heat with the bubbly alcohol running through your bloodstream. you're halfway to tipsy and somehow completely oblivious to the way andrei's shoulders are still tight and ridged, something that normally subsides after take off.

as far as you know—because it's what your best friend told you, mind you—you're attending andrei's cousins wedding as his best friend. because since 2019, where you meet the russian hurricanes rookie downtown at a shitty dive bar playing music far too loud, you and andrei have been just that. best friends.

you suppose the friendship blossomed because of your common interests of sports and adam sandler movies and how the smell of coconut is one of your favourite things in the entire world. or perhaps it was your differences that had you and andrei forming such a strong friendship.

you hate rollercoasters, but andrei loves them.

you love tequila, but when andrei drinks tequila he ends up with his head inside a toilet bowl.

you would rather eat rubber than an olive, but andrei puts olives on everything he eats—much to his dietary staffs displeasure. salt is a killer people.

regardless, the both of you bonded over shitty honey garlic wings served with a side of ranch—sauce on the side per your request, to which he called you a weirdo for. whatever—and became fast friends.

so obviously three weeks ago when andrei asked if you wanted to come to the wedding so he, you and quote, 'doesn't have to be alone while he young cousins force him to play around the yard, and his distant family talks his ear off the entire weekend,' you easily complied. you booked the time off work that afternoon before leaving the office without so much as a second thought.

but andrei didn't tell you why he needed you to join him. not the real reason anyways. because what? he's just supposed to say, 'oh by the way, this weekend I need you to be my fake girlfriend because I told my family that's what we have become. boyfriend and fucking girlfriend.'

yeah, unfucking likely. and andrei knows that you're not going to kill him over his little lie. that's just not you. he's also sure that if he was truthful from the beginning with you, you would've agreed to the whole fake in love act with the snap of a finger. because you're giving and caring and so damn compassionate that it's almost sickly.

but andrei just couldn't. he kept pushing the truth back, telling himself that the moment would come and that’s when he would come clean. but now you're both on the plane to russia, wedding just a few days away, and you still have no idea that in 16 hours you're going to be sharing a bed and holding hands and maybe even needing to show a few kisses.

god, it's a mess.

"do you feel sick?" your smooth voice breaks andrei out of his stress whirling thoughts, lifting his palm off his sweaty forehead like he's been caught stealing candy. it's then when andrei realizes he audibly groaned out loud, which obviously did it’s part in grabbing your attention.

he swallows and sends you an unconvincing smile. "no, i'm fine." andrei feels sick alright, just not in the way you're picturing.

you blink like a baby deer at him from over the adjustable wall between your scoop like seats—your champagne glass abandoned on the fold away table in favour of clutching the edge of the wall between your manicured fingers.

a pout pulls at your lips before you reach out, touching his forehead with the back of your hand. "are you warm?"

andrei jerks back, worried that you’ll notice the misting of sweat dusting his hairline. "no, what? I'm fine, y/n."

you send him a skeptical look, "you look like you're about to blow chunks everywhere."

"that's gross."

"it's true," you chime. a beat passes, your gaze never wavering from andrei's wound up, tight expression, while the plane continues to easily glide through the clouds.

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing on the plump skin until it will undoubtedly go raw. andrei has to stop himself from reaching over to pull your lip out with his thumb.

"are you mad about something? nervous?" you push, determined to get your best friend to spill regardless of how tightly wound up he is. and obviously you've noticed that he's been a little...off, for lack of a better word, the past three weeks. andrei is your best friend, of course you noticed.

but you know better than to push him, and that andrei will open up when he's ready—like usual. but the champagne floating around in your head has your tongue slipping, and curiosity has gotten the best of you.

"is it something I did?" you swallow, something tentative in your tone that makes andrei's belly clench with guilt.

"no," he breathes before running a calloused hand down the front of his flushed face. andrei looks back over to you, eyes flickering between your wide and sad ones, and he just breaks. "I fucked up."

ever amused by his dramatics, you quirk a brow at his distress. the drunk haze has you unable to see his actual, very real, distress. "you get the sushi from that airport kiosk after I went to the bathroom, didn't you?"

but it's then —when andrei looks over at you with a guilt ridden, pouty raw lip, that you blink. hard. a wave of hot sweat rushing over your skin as every possible problem arises in your body.

andrei mutters your name in that deep, gravelly way and you think you might be the one who ends up puking.

"what is it?" you swallow, "what happened? are you okay?"

he groans again, no less dramatic than the previous display, head falling back against the plush first class cushioned head rest, giving himself a nice view of the hard plastic roof above.

andrei thinks back to the phone call with his family—more specifically, how pleased they sounded when he told them that you were the girl he was bringing home.

you, the girl he's cared for since before he could string a cohesive english scentence together.

you, the girl who his mom facetimes more than she facetimes her own son.

you, the best friend his family has had the pleasure of falling in love with and accepting as one of their own. but left disappointed when andrei said, no, nothings there between you.

just friends.

it's too late to back out now—for obvious reasons, clearly—but also for the fact that he can't take this away from his family now. not when his mother had said she's been waiting for the two of you to fall in love.

so fall in love you must. even if it's fake.

andrei's head lols against the headrest over in your direction, and he gulps slowly, adam's apple bobbing largely. before he can chicken out and do something crazy like jump out of the emergency exit, andrei's lips part with hesitation.

"we have to pretend to be in love," he pauses, "like in love."

at first you just blink at him, face completely flat and void of emotion, and then every so subtly, your brows draw together. "...why?"

"I just," andrei hesitates like he's not quite sure exactly what to say to you. he chalks it up to the way your soft eyes are unwavering—patient, even—and that's the reason andrei just spews.

he tells you everything. from the wedding invitation with the accompanying plus one he got in the mail a year prior, and all the way through the conversation with his mom and his aunt just a few weeks ago. the taunting plus one and lack of girlfriend that just bubbled up in his chest until the lie just fell off his tongue.

andrei takes a much needed inhale, his cheeks flushed like a little boys in the summer heat. "and when my mom asked for my girlfriends name...I don't know? you were the first person I thought of."

you nod after a beat, every so slightly that andrei is not sure if he's imagining it. you fall back into the large seat with a fluttering sigh, "oh fuck."

andrei can't help the disbelief laced laughter that rumbles through his broad chest, because, yeah, oh fuck is right.

you turn to look at him, face a little less flushed than the last time you did.

"if it makes you feel any better," he continues awkwardly, scratching the spot next to his heart like a nervous habit. "my mom was really excited that we're together now."

"andrei."

he winces, "are you mad at me?"

the question prompts a flash of deja vu from meer minutes ago, when the question was flipped between you. "no," you tell him after a beat, running a clammy hand over your untamed hair. "i'm just...trying to digest it all."

"right, of course." andrei swallows and sits up straighter in his seat, "and I know i'm springing this on you very last fucking minute. but i've already figured it all out, and i've got some sort of a game plan for us."

"a game plan?"

"yeah," he nods, "I've called it the 'andrei and y/n love affair 2025.'"

"that's good," you gulp, pulling your knees up against your chest. your matching cream sweat set all blends together in this position, and andrei thinks you look like a cute marshmallow—but he chooses to not verbalize that right now, because it may just push you over the edge.

even though right now, you're surprisingly calm and it's kind of freaking him out even further.

you continue, "I hope you have this said love affair plan written down because we really gotta figure this out before we get to russia."

instinctively his chocolate eyes flicker towards the map screen, stealing a glance at the ETA of the touchdown. andrei looks back at you, "oh, we've got time."

for the next hour and forty five minutes, you and andrei go through every possible nook and cranny of your fake relationship and nail it down. from the beginning right until the very end, the plan has been polished and repeated between you over 20 times. each.

throughout the conversation you started to come a little more to. it helped that andrei asked if you were okay every fifteen seconds—which any other time may be a little annoying—but right now, you accept his persistent with open arms.

knowing that he feels bad about the situation is enough, even though you could never actually be mad at him. not over something as simple as this. the amount of times andrei has picked your drunk ass up from a variety of different carolina bars over the years—or took care of you the next morning—let's just say you definitely owe him a favour or two.

besides, it's not like you're really worried about faking a romantic relationship with andrei. most of the time it feels like andrei is already your boyfriend, just without the kissing and…stuff. now that's making you a bit nervous. but you digress.

you've both had a few glasses of champagne now, allowing yourselves to relax a bit more—which was much needed. it also allows your usual banter and teasing to return between you and andrei, hushed laughter falling from your lips under the dim lights of the cabin.

"so," you muse, a little slurred. "when did you realize you liked me?"

"you're ridiculous," andrei snorts, earning a cautious look from the old lady on the other side of the plane. neither of you notice.

"what," you laugh, "i'm prepping you for the questions." you reach over and push his thick thigh with the tips of your fingers. he barley budges.

"'nobody is going to ask me that." andrei counters teasingly, nudging you back.

"they might!" you counter, a teasing smile still tugging at your lips, a sight that has andrei following suit with his own boyish grin.

"if they ask...i'll say," he pauses, making you wait with half baited breath, tucked under the first class blankets that andrei always thinks feel like toothbrush bristles. andrei shrugs casually, "i'll say always."

your head whips in his direction from where you previously started to flip through the dinner menu—always so easily distracted—so fast that andrei gets a whiff of your raspberry shampoo. it's a pleasant smell, one that reminds him of coming home after a road trip to you sleeping on his apartment couch.

his words settle over your skin like a prickling whisper, and you blink a few times in surprise.

but then, like he didn't just say something so heartfelt and beautiful, turns towards the airplane dinner menu, humming thoughtfully as he reads the three options. "I think i'm gunna get the steak."

—

carefully, but with precision, you roll your shoulders, bones and vertebrae squeaking and cracking in—a much needed, mind you—protest.

you can still smell the lingering champagne and the scent of plane on your skin, and on andrei's as he walks back towards you from where’d he’d been in the heart of baggage claim, both of your suitcases in tow—wheels squeaking along the weathered floor tiles.

andrei looks all but awake as he raises his eyebrows in question, "all ready?"

you groan sleepily as a form of answer, raising your arms in a limb stretching pull, tank top risings and exposing your lower belly to the bustling airport. you removed your fluffy hoodie as soon as you stepped onto the hot, sticky tarmac and it's now sitting comfortably around your best friends broad shoulders, making him look like he belongs in a country club.

oddly enough it suits him—when you said that though he gave you a look.

despite the way andrei urges you along, he too is fighting exhaustion. changing time zones is always a struggle no matter how many times a year andrei does it, and this weekend trip is no exception. there's matching eye bags under both of your eyes, and even though andrei knows that his family is waiting for your arrival, all he wants to do is climb into his small double childhood bed and pass out.

and you're in the same boat it seems, ugg slippered feet dragging on the ground beside andrei as you both step onto the descending escalator—suitcases clinging annoyingly at the change of surface.

the ride down is held for nothing but the whirling sound of the machinery as you and andrei stay quiet. not only are you both on the brink of falling asleep while up right, but you're both so damn nervous about perfecting your plan that speaking about it will only make it worse.

and if you panic, andrei will panic and it will just go to shit.

so silence is good.

once you're stepping off the escalator and onto the ground level of the airport, andrei automatically places his large palm on your lower back, steadying you as you both make your way towards the large exit doors that lead to the even larger parking lot.

a parking lot that undeniably has his family waiting for the both of you. suddenly you’re wishing you guys just called and uber.

your heart flutters anxiously, feet coming to an abrupt stop at the thought of the days ahead. you're supposed to be a girlfriend from here on out, and that has your tongue molding into a sheet of sand paper.

once he notices you’ve stopped walking, andrei spins to look back at you, his brows pulled in the concerned way he always seems to have when it comes to your well being.

"do I look okay?" you ask frantically, running your hands over your oily, yet somehow also frizzy, hair.

"you look fine," andrei soothes, pulling your hands away from your head and holding both of your clammy hands in one of his. stupid giant boy. "stop playing with it though, or else we will really have a problem "

you send him a deadpan look. "you're not funny."

andrei grins despite the sleep lacing his expression. he easily tugs you back into his side as you both begin to short walk towards the doors. finally. "you're right. i'm actually hilarious."

you roll your eyes and push the door open, a wave of heat washing over your already dewy skin and making you feel a bit woozy. andrei reaches over your head and pushes it open further, holding the door and allowing you to easily slip outside.

he continues, "you don't need to be nervous, y/n. you've met my family before and they are already obsessed with you." andrei makes a noise between an amused scoff and a laugh, "my mom texted me yesterday and said she's already changed your contact name to, future daughter in law."

"jesus christ," you exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead. your eyes flicker up to his, "don't say that or i'll start feeling bad."

andrei holds off from smirking, "don't feel bad."

"too late."

"hey, just stop for a second." andrei gently takes ahold of your wrist, his index finger automatically stroking the outer part of your forearm. you know he's doing it to calm you, but unfortunately it only turns your stomach flutters up to a maximum.

andrei swallows, and all signs of his playfulness from mere seconds ago fades. his eyes swim with sincerity as he continues, "if this is too much just tell me and i'll handle it. I don't care if my mom whoops me with her shoe—if you're uncomfortable with this plan, i'll make sure it doesn't move forward."

you blink before managing to give one firm shake of your head. obviously you're nervous, but not enough to ruin your best friends entire trip. not over this. "i'm fine."

he looks skeptical, "promise me?"

"we're not 5." you deadpan.

"promise me."

you sigh—a mixture of reluctance and amusement. "I promise. i'm just...nervous. and overthinking everything. i’ll be fine once I get some sleep."

andrei's response comes easily, like he doesn't even need to think about reassuring you. "that's okay. just be you." he squeezes your wrist. "seriously."

your lips part in an attempt to deflect the wave of tenderness rushing between you and andrei—some sarcastic remark about him becoming a softly, surely. but the excitable gasp from across the surprisingly calm parking lot halts you.

"andrei!" his mothers voice is full of excitement as elena svechnikov bounces on her heels. both you and andrei look towards the commotion and find not only his mother, but his father, igor, and for some reason the family dog.

your best friend grumbles under his breath. "oh god."

you squint through the sunshine reflecting on the cars and distorting your vision. "is that a sign?"

he matches your squinty expression, even going as fair to shield his eyes from the sun with his gigantic hand. "that's definitely a sign."

his mother, ever to sweetest lady—seriously like purse candy, shirt of her back, treats you like her own kind of sweet—is clutching a piece of red and black decorated bristol board. canes colours obviously. a big and bold font that says welcome home smack dab in the middle.

you're pretty sure there are even a few pictures of you and andrei accompanying the words.

andrei's shoulders fall in what is probably exhaustion and the act of giving up. his eyes flicker towards your side profile, a careful expression on his face as he asses yours.

"we got this," you mutter after a beat, squinting through the blistering sun and away from his parents—up at your best friend.

"I hope so." without another passing second, andrei interlocks your fingers together, a soft yet confident smile overtaking his face as he pulls you both across the parking lot and in the direction of his family.

you don't even register the feeling of his hand in yours until his mother is greeting you both happily, pulling you into a bone crushing embrace that has the potential to crack your ribs.

"wow mom," andrei snickers playfully, ruffling the dogs overrun head of curls as it jumps up his thighs. "you must love y/n more than me if you’re greeting her first."

elena waves of his teasing before pulling andrei into a hug that mimics the one you just received. andries father gives you a polite hug and then takes one of the suitcases andrei wheeled up to the side of the car.

"how was the flight?" his mom questions, eyes darting between you both with the upmost twinkle of curiosity.

"long," you breathe a laugh.

andrei grins, "but we were fine. lots of talking to pass the time."

you shoot him a look, and andrei winks at you in response.

this guy.

registering your voice, the family dog bounds towards you next, its chubby legs and paws scratching at your legs, tail wagging happily while it pants up at you—clearly seeking affection. affection that you're happy to provide. always a sucker for animals, you crouch down and scrub behind the dogs ears. it earns you a satisfied rumble from its tiny body.

"you guys are definitely tired," elena clicks her tongue in displeasure, running a knuckle over her sons cheek like he’s a kid. "let's get you two home."

she gently pets your head before making sure her husband is packing the luggage in the car correctly—even though igor claims there's no correct way to pack a trunk. andrei's mother begs to differ.

the dog follows in her footsteps, leaving you. with a sigh, you place your hands on your knees and push up from your crouched position.

clearly you should've checked how close andrei was standing behind you, because your proximity has you completely grinding your ass against his crotch as you move to stand.

you gasp as andrei lets out a gentle grunt.

"sorry!" you wince quietly, but before you can move away, andrei arm wraps around your waist, fingers flexing against your lower stomach as he pulls you back into his chest, holding you in place and not allowing you to escape.

"it's okay baby." he says. you try not let your eyes widen at the nickname or the way you can feel his semi poking at your lower back. you're sure the blush you're now sporting is visible by anyone in the general vicinity and that's embarrassing enough.

elena hearing your voices, turns away from her husband and looks towards you. the sight of you embraced has her cooing, hands held to her chest like she's just seen the rebirth of christ himself.

"aren't you too so cute, I'm glad you two are finally together." it's clear she's not seeking any kind of response with her admiration because she turns and gets into the passenger seat before either you or andrei can attempt at closing your gaping mouths. you seriously look like fish.

the car door slamming shut has andrei blinking. he clears his throat once, and drops his arm from around your waist, and despite the heat of the sun, his lack of touch leaves you feeling cool.

you quickly move away from andrei and his...situation, allowing him the space to subtly fix his problem before anything else. you try not to think about it and pass your backpack to andrei's father, who is waiting patiently for the last bit of luggage.

"you okay sweetie?" igor sends you a weary coupled with amused glance, placing your pink bag on top of andrei's green suitcase. "you're looking flushed."

your eyes widen into saucers as your skin only warms further. jesus christ.

thankfully, ever your savour, andrei saunters up next to you, shoving his own carry on into the trunk with anything less than grace. he laughs, "it is summer, dad. we're both roasting." andrei jerks his head towards the front of the suv while the dog barks happily from his mothers lap. "go ahead and get in dad, run the air conditioner for a second. i've got the rest of the bags."

as soon as igor gets into the driver's seat, your both whipping in each others direction, looks of bewilderment on your faces as the last 5 minutes linger in the air.

"fuck i'm sorry," andrei whispers frantically, pretending to adjust the suitcases to not draw too much attention to either of you. "I don't know what came over me there. are you okay?"

you can't help your eyes from flickering towards his crotch. "are you okay?"

"I will be as soon as we stop talking about it."

you snort a laugh before quickly covering your mouth with your hand, concealing the sound. andrei sends you a harsh look which only makes you giggle more.

he shuts the trunk. "just...get in the car."

"such a gentlemen."

all earlier teasing and playfulness comes to a lull as the cool and plush leather seat envelopes you—the lack of rest and pure exhaustion quickly creeping back into your bones. it's truly game over when the car starts moving, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

not even the smell of airplane and greasy hair can stop the comfort of your best friends thick body pressed against yours, providing you with the most perfect pillow as you knock out, the beautiful city of barnaul passing through the window panes.

— day 1 BREAKFAST

you have very faint memory of climbing up the stairs of the svechnikov home after arriving back from the airport. andrei helped you out the car—sleep still clouding your eyes and your legs wobbly like a brand new baby giraffe.

the next thing you know, you're blinking awake, the sun shining through the sheer blue curtains and assaulting your eyes. you're not sure exactly what time it is, but based on the light and the smell of breakfast food wafting up the stairs, you can only assume you've slept through yesterday afternoon and night.

you blink a few times, squinting at the alarm clock on the bedside table until it becomes clear—7:08 a.m. you groan into the quiet room, the mattress squeaking under your weight while you shift into a more upright position. the navy blue plaid duvet falls to your hips. it unmistakably smells like andrei, and although it's a room you've stayed in before, being in here never fails to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

there are posters up on his wall of ovechkin and a few other russian nhl stars. old hockey sticks sit collecting dust in the corner of his room, and next to them is your suitcase. andrei must've rolled it in after you got into the bed, where you undoubtedly knocked right back out.

you stretch the stiffness from your limbs before slipping out of bed. you're still in your travel clothes, so you make quick work of changing into something a little more appropriate—cut offs and an old shirt of andrei's because you really can't be bothered to dress up for 7 am breakfast—and cleaning yourself up.

after a quick trip to the bathroom where you speed run brushing your teeth and washing your face, you timidly make your way down the stairs, the noise of bacon sizzling on the stove and gentle chatter becoming louder as you enter the room.

evgeny, andrei's brother, spots you first from his spot already sitting at the dining table. he quickly swallows his gulp of tea before calling your name in welcome greeting, "hey, you're up. how was the flight?"

it causes a chain reaction really. elena and igor turn to look in your direction from where they're fussing over scrambled eggs and various meats in the frying pan—both greeting you warmly in a way that just sounds like one long jumbled scentence. evgeny's fiancee, sara, smiles and says your name in the bubbly way she does, patting the chair next to her as an invitation.

the dogs loudly barking and it's kind of a lot for this early, but you've done it all before, and easily navigate through the bustling kitchen, and the happy dog weaving through your legs, to take a seat beside sara.

"it was alright," you answer evgeny's question while sara wordlessly pours you some orange juice. it's your favourite, and elena always makes sure it's made fresh anytime you and andrei come visit. the thought of that alone has any lingering tiredness disappearing, and a absentminded smile blossoming on your face at the simple gesture.

he snickers and shoves some bacon into his mouth. "long, huh?"

"you can say that."

"sausage or bacon, y/n?" igor glances at you over his shoulder.

you hum, "bacon, thank you."

"you and andrei," his mother woos knowingly, "you're both the only people I know who love bacon as much as you do." elena holds a plate towards her husband, and once he piles some bacon beside the gooey eggs, she's placing it on the woven placemat in front of you.

"speaking of sleeping beauty," evgeny's playfully tone has you looking away from your breakfast and towards the archway that sits between the kitchen and family room. and there stands andrei,  sweatpants hung low on his hips, and hair messy like he's been running his hand through it.

you heart ticks as you lock eyes and the corner of andrei's lips turn upwards into a lazy smile.

"get enough beauty rest?" his older brother continues to tease him, earning evgeny a flick to his bicep courtesy of elena.

your brows furrow, as its only then you realize andrei wasn't in his childhood bed, but in fact, you were. "where'd you sleep?" it's not uncommon for you and andrei to share a sleeping place, even if he's on a half deflated air mattress, grumbling like a baby, while you snuggle in the cozy bed.

"the guest room — although," he shoots his mother a look, "it was hard with all the clothes that have seemingly taken over that bed." andrei rounds to the back of your chair, hovering over you while he playfully scolds his mother.

naturally you tilt your head back to continue looking at him, his mothers rebuttal comforting background noise.

he looks down at you, a half frown settling over his face. "you're squinting. you forgot your glasses, didn't you?" he reaches out and runs his thumb along the crease between your eyebrows.

the action is so soft and so sincere that you almost forget you need to reply like a normal person. "oh, right. yeah, I did."

you didn’t even realize you’d forgotten them.

andrei always notices.

he hums in what sounds like displeasure, taking his thumb off your face in favour of moving to sit on the unoocupied chair to the other side of you and sara. then andrei gulps down three huge gulps of your orange juice and just like that you forget about the butterflies in your stomach—snatching back the glass and shoving at his shoulder.

elena sits down across the table, breakfast plate piled high with eggs and fruit and sausage. it's just as mouth watering as your own plate. "you know," she starts, "you don't have to sleep in the guest room, andrei."

he shrugs, the kind of shrug that tells you he's listening to his mother but he's not actually hearing her. no, he’s too busy shoving eggs covered in pepper into his mouth. "it's no big deal," andrei stays through bites.

elena waves a dismissive hand, while she forks some cantaloupe with the other. "oh don't spare me son, I know you two share a bed, and It's alright to sleep upstairs with y/n." she pauses, a half amused and half concerned drawn look at her face. "well, I can imagine you do more than just share the bed."

you choke on your sip of juice at the same time andrei almost spits out the piece of bacon he just greedily scarfed. it earns you both curious looks from around the table. well, curious for everyone except evgeny, who looks all too amused with the way this conversation is headed.

"oh, that's okay-"

andrei cuts you off, a blush settling high over his cheeks. "mom, do not continue that thought."

"what?" she squawks, "it's completely normal for people who are together to make love."

"make love!" evengey relates with a laugh.

sara hides her face.

igor, used to his wife's antics, just stays silent. but the half smile on his face lets you know that he too is amused.

but you and andrei are like statues.

elena continues, "although i'd prefer if you didn't do anything in your childhood room, andrei. it's too nostalgic for you to just...strip it of its innocence." she forks some more egg onto her utensil, "but as soon as you guys get back to carolina, please, get to making me some grand babies."

"okay," andrei cuts her off before either of you can truly die from embarrassment. he scratches the spot near his heart awkwardly, and even in your own state of despair, you have to resist the urge to distract him. "can we save the sex talks until dinner." he trails off, muttering under his breath, "and the babies until the wedding."

it's sara who clears her throat, clearly also feeling the laughable tension—and snickering from her husband—tainting breakfast. she plasters on a smile, before shifting the conversation. thank god.

"I can't believe it took you guys so long."

you tilt your head, "what do you mean?"

sara laughs in a way that tells you she finds this whole ordeal cute. not sure if that’s the word you would use to describe it, but anyways. “to get together. you know, dating.”

"right!" you almost shout, blinking fast. without thinking, you toss your hand on andrei’s thick thigh, rubbing it briefly like some weird form of possessive affection.

at your touch, andrei tenses. you can feel it under your palm. if it wasn’t for his family all around, you would’ve face palmed right in that very moment. is this a normal thing girls do with their boyfriend? grope his thigh during family breakfast?

before you can remove your grip and regret your entire existence, andrei casually tosses his thick arm over the back of your dining room chair. his fingers stroke your shoulder over your (his) oversized shirt, wordlessly reassuring you that everything is fine.

it feels far from fine, especially with your hand starting to sweat.

“yeah,” andrei shrugs the shoulder that’s not beside yours, “guess I finally realized what was right in front of me.”

you shove some more eggs into your mouth, chewing slowly while your try to not freak out. and then andrei’s hand is on the back of your head, scratching your scalp like it’s an everyday occurrence.

why are you kind of wishing it was?

sara and elena gush, sharing knowing looks over the table. a look that says yeah, I remember falling in love with a svechnikov.

which on one hand is great—they are truly buying the whole fake dating thing.

but on the other hand—fuck, do you look like you’re actually in love with your best friend?

"I always thought the two of you would be cute together.” sara notes after swallowing her bite of whole wheat toast. “i've been telling y/n that since, what, like our engagement party in september?"

andrei makes a light noise, “is that so?” he tugs at the roots of your hair, “you never told me that.”

“mhmm,” you hum noncommittally, finishing off your glass of orange juice. you barley remembered that conversation with, at the time, newly engaged fiancée until this moment. you briefly recall you and sara, wine drunk and with a ring glittering on her finger—her smooth voice talking about you and andrei and how she thinks he’s in love with you.

you look at andrei, “didn’t cross my mind.”

“oh no?” he murmurs, voice all low and syrupy.

evgeny snorts, “get a room.”

you let out a laugh that sounds a lot like a grumbly breath, retracting your hand from andrei’s leg. you attempt to get the pitcher of orange juice but your best friend beats you to it, refilling your glass almost dangerously full—no doubt planning on stealing some more.

then andrei takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and then resting them on top the table. it so sweet and domestic and if it wasn’t doing funny things to your head, you’d probably melt at the sight.

elena grins, “awe, they’re holding hands.”

and then—

“yeah soon enough they’ll be making babies in the bathroom.”

— day 2 REHEARSAL DINNER

andrei check his watch, not impatiently mind you, because when it comes to waiting for you, andrei has all the patience in the world.

plus his mother would kick him in the butt if andrei even breathed the wrong way right now about your current lack of presence. his cousins rehearsal dinner starts in an hour, and with a 45 minute drive to the vineyard, andrei is looking to leave like, 2 minutes ago.

which is fine, because he's not just waiting on you. sara is still upstairs with you, and his mother is changing out her purse on the kitchen island because her usual handbag isn't the right shade. andrei didn't even realize there were different shades of black. but whatever.

it’s just about as andrei is about to climb up the stairs and make sure you haven't burned all your hair off and are having a breakdown in his dinosaur themed bathroom , the sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards echo through the home.

and then you're appearing, in some breezy conversation with his brothers wife while you descend down the stairs. your dress, which is the perfect shade of summer blue, swooshes coolly around your ankles, making you look like a real life princess. your hair is styled perfectly, and you've even added a little extra glitter to your eyelids and andrei thinks you look fucking ridiculously pretty.

your eyes catch his, and you falter. time slows down like honey between you and andrei, warming your skin and making your knees feel heavy.

andrei's lips part like he's going to say something, but elena waltzes into the room, igor just being her—both sporting wide smiles as the height of the evening approaches.

his mother spots you and inhales sharply. "oh wow, don't you look beautiful. andrei, honey, doesn’t she look beautiful?"

it seems to break you both out of your locked, heated gaze. you smile naturally like being polite is second nature, closed mouth and with glossy lips as you continue the rest of the way down the stairs. you gravitate next to andrei instinctively.

"yeah," andrei breathes, a half smile on his face that says something words can't yet. "she does."

and then he ruffles your hair and everything shifts again. you smack him away form your freshly done hair, but andrei just takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers as his parents usher everyone out the door.

—

the speeches go by in a flurry of laughter and emotion, warming your chest in a longing way you didn't release you held. there was one point when the best man started talking about how lovely the bride to be was, and your eyes got a little misty. which meant that there were fat tears rolling down your cheeks. andrei caught it, and instead of snickering at your emotion, he tugged you into his side, wiping your tears before they could continue to fall with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the speeches.

somehow, that was worse than him laughing.

thankfully as soon as the food came around, your stomach growled and the tears and sudden feeling of impending doom towards being single forever, disappeared. it's delicious and perfect and andrei keeps purposefully nudging his knee against yours under the table when someone makes a loud, stupid joke.

and that always ends up with you hiding your grin in his shoulder.

andrei, long clearing his own plate, snatches one of your brussels with his silver fork. right off your plate without a care.

your mouth goes agape, a half laugh falling from your lips. "hey!" you scold, "those are mine."

"sharing is caring," he reminds you, stabbing two more from the pile before raising them to his mouth.

"so?"

"so, do you want me to starve or something?" 

you quirk a teasing brow, "maybe if you savoured the taste of your own dinner, instead of scarfing it down like a neanderthal, you would actually be full."

"I can help it," andrei says around chewing, leaning in real close before continuing. "they're so buttery and delicious." clearly, andrei is trying to sound sudective and wind you up, but all you can hear is his chewing and it has you laughing, pushing him away as his voice tickles your neck.

"you're so gross." you laugh, grabbing the last full brussel that andrei was hoarding on the prongs of his fork, and then pop it into your own mouth.

he tongues his cheek as you chew up at him, a shake to his head so slow and soft that you're not even sure he's done. it's admiration, and amusement, and care—and it sends your heart into cardiac arrest.

andrei's gaze is so intense that it has a shiver running up your spine. the feeling making you straighten your posture and force yourself to look away. you don't see the way his face falls, or feel the way his heart drops.

and andrei doesn't know the way your heart has completely opened up to him in a different way. a way that reminds you of the feeling of home. of the past. of love.

"so, how'd you two meet?"

someone who you're pretty sure is a college friend of the groom, asks from across the table, looking between you and andrei curiously. his girlfriend has the same look on her face, hugging her man's arm fondly.

their display of affection makes you feel a bit funny considering you and andrei are supposed to look in love, but aren't even cuddling with one another at the dman rehearsal dinner like the very real couple.

so—awkwardly—you lean through the space between you and andrei, and wrap your arms around his bicep, your cheek resting against the crisp linen button up decorating his shoulder.

andrei shoots you a curious yet amused look. clearly he knows what you're trying to do, because he doesn't bring attention to your sudden affection. instead, he plays into it, large hand coming over your knee like this is something you two do all the time.

it must look natural enough because no one around the two of you bat an eye.

"we met at a bar." andrei says, "around the time I was drafted to the NHL."

"we've been friends for years." you add on without thinking.

a bridesmaid next to the couple nods, "and when did you realize you were in love?"

andrei laughs softly, rubbing that spot on his chest with his free hand. he swallows gently before answering the loaded question. "her laugh. that night at the bar, she was laughing at something one of her friends had said. I was naturally attracted to the sound. it was loud and real- it matched her perfectly."

andrei pauses, thumb twitching over the material of your blue dress. "and then when we started to chat, she was so patient with my broken english and bad flirting that I just..." he trails off, meeting your eyes from where you're softly peering up at him. "I fell for her that very same night."

you're pretty sure you stop breathing, and if you weren't surrounded by a bunch of strangers, you probably would've audibly gasped at that.

andrei blinks sheepishly, like he's only just taking account of what he's actually just said. he looks away form your gentle gaze and back towards the member of his cousins wedding party—who is staring at the two of you with a look he can't decipher.

andrei forces a chuckle and it's like a cold water bucket over your head. "only took me 7 years to admit it." he squeezes your knee in a way that feels like an apology mixed with truth. "but we're here now. right baby?"

"yeah," you clear your throat, his words and admission laying heavy on your heart. "we are."

—day 3 THE WEDDING

okay so you've kind of been avoiding andrei since the rehearsal dinner. and that was yesterday. it's just—you don't really know where to go from that.

even if andrei was trying to play into the whole fake relationship scheme, he literally admitted that he's been into since the night you met in that dingy raleigh bar almost 8 years ago. even if he didn't actually mean it, hearing him say those words cracked open the locked box in your chest.

when you met andrei many moons ago, you were quickly drawn to his dorky smile and shy persona. it was almost instantly that you developed some form of infatuation. and back then—drunk of course. you were in college. in a bar after all—you were much more confident.

you weren't going to let the russian slip away. not when the guy had you flustered and dipping your chin after two minutes of a half strung together conversation.

so you made sure to stay in touch. texting and calling and making andrei download snapchat so he could see how dolled up you'd get. for him.

you went out for drive thru dinners before andrei’s athletic trainer cared too much about the food he was consuming, and you watched movies with your legs tangled together in his apartment. fuck you even helped him learn english outside of his lessons.

but nothing ever happened. no moves were made because frankly, you weren't sure if he possessed the same kind of romantic interest in you.

so you pushed those feeling away. deep, deep, deep down into the spot in your heart you keep concealed to everyone, even to yourself. and you threw that damn metaphorical key in the toilet it and flushed it. twice.

friendship was good. and easy. and you could accept a friendship with him. because you still had him, regardless of your hidden feelings.

and you thought your feelings for your best friend had completely vanished in the last 8 years. until last night. when andrei and his sweet words and large mitt on your leg—stroking you and squeezing your flesh—started taking about falling for you the same night you fell for him.

surprise! feelings are coming back up the drain and soaking you.

and, oh god, the wedding. the venue which was stupidly packed and even more beautiful, decorated in lavender and baby pink, only made your feelings amplify.

because your avoidance for andrei didn't stop him from being the most patient and sweetest guy. he could tell you needed space as soon as you woke up this morning, and he walked into the bathroom to find you angrily brushing your teeth—and when you didn't send him a foamy smile from around the handle, andrei just knew something was up.

so he just sat beside you silently during the ceremony, wordlessly handing you a few tissues from his suit jacket when you began to cry during the vows. even when he didn't know your tears had nothing to do with the happy couple up at the altar, but instead the guy you've been in love with since before you knew the difference between tequila and vodka.

"you okay?" andrei asks during the journey to the ceremony outside, to the reception inside, words hushed against your ear while his hand hovers your lower back.

you nod, too quick and ridged. "just need a drink."

and drink did you ever. because two hours later once the sun has long set, and your shoes have been abandoned under the dinner table in favour of dancing, you can barley contain your drunken laughter and poorly timed singing.

you've probably had two bottles of wine to yourself.

and andrei can tell because your skin has changed shades and you no longer seem upset. which andrei knows is only because the liquor has coated your bloodstream, allowing you to forget whatever—or whoever—had upset you.

even though andrei is 99.9% positive that the reason for your cold shoulder is him. that, or the oyster joke evgeny made yesterday afternoon, but that was a long shot. it was most certainly him.

andrei watches with what he doesn't realize is a full blown pout on his face—like glistening, down turned lips, chin resting on his knuckles pouting—as you spin around with his sister in law.

not even the sound of your previous seat scraping against the floor pulls andrei out of his sad stare. it’s only when his brother nudges him that andrei blinks.

“so,” evgeny starts, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them, but still loud enough to be heard over the music. “y/n, huh?

“yeah,” andrei breathes, “y/n.” your name taste like sugar on his tongue.

evgeny nods in approval, but his lips are pursed in thought. a beat passes between them, nothing but the laughter of guests and synth pop song playing from the dj booth to be heard.

“can't say I'm suprised,” his brother eventually settles on, making andrei’s brows turn upwards in question while a rush of ice shoots through his veins. the inquiry and tone of evgeny’s statement has andrei feeling weary.

simply due to the fact that his older brother has always known andrei better than andrei knows himself.

he’s scratching at his chest again, but evgeny notices the nervous tic before andrei notices it himself. once andrei sees his brothers knowing glance though, andrei pulls his hand away so fast it’s like he’s been burnt, choosing to rap his knuckles against the table cloth instead.

andrei lick his lower lip before speaking. lis that a bad thing?”

“absolutely not,” evgeny reassures at the speed of light, voice steady. “it's just...I could tell that you loved her. always have.”

andrei laughs once—low and breathy—despite the way the words weigh on his chest. “I haven't always loved her. you're making me sound like a sad puppy or something equally as...” andrei trails off, but his brother is quick to fill the silence.

“pathetic?”

“yeah.”

“well, you are pathetic.” evgeny snorts, a playful edge to his voice that makes andrei sweaty. nervous. “when it came to her. always watching her, not subtly at all. and the flowers, and the birthdays, and that one year you couldn’t come home for christmas because y/n had the flu and you wanted to make sure she was okay.”

andrei shrugs causally, all while the weight of the truth sits like thick fog in the air. suffocating him. andrei doesn’t dare look over at you. not now. not when it will make him crumble and spill everything. “well i'm a good friend-and boyfriend.”

his brother doesn’t comment on the slip up. “I know that. but when it came to taking care of y/n and just being with her, it wasn't just about you being a good friend. it was about you loving her.”

fuck.

evgeny watches his brother carefully. he can see the way his words are affecting andrei, and the emotion pricking the heart on his sleeve.

it’s only then, when the conversation comes to another brief pause, does evgeny see the way andrei’s eyes flicker back towards your dancing, carefree frame. and instantly, he watches his younger brothers face changes.

it’s hurt.

it’s longing.

it’s unspoken love.

“it's okay to be in love andrei.” evgeny breathes slowly as if not to startle. “you've got a good one.”

a rough swallow and then andrei nods. “yeah. I do.”

“and mom loves her.”

that seems to do the trick, and it illicit a rough chuckle from andrei’s chest. “you don't say.”

“definitely more than you.”

andrei looks back at his brother, the start of an amused smile beginning to pull at his lips. “thanks dick.”

“you're welcome. and hey—now that you finally have her, never let her go.”

andrei isn’t oblivious to the underlying meaning of evgeny’s words. like he’s said, his older brother knows him well. but it doesn’t stop the panic creeping up andrei’s sternum, and the urge to deflect and deny is uncanny.

just as andrei goes to respond, you stumble into his eyesight, tripping over the air like it was a curb, and completely stealing andrei’s attention. thankfully you catch yourself before falling to the ground, but it still sends andrei’s heart into over drive.

"you okay?" evgeny asks you, his amusement clear. almost as clear as your level of intoxication.

andrei is on his feet before he even realizes that he’s stood up from the upholstered chair, standing next to you with his hand hovering over your back.

you nod with a lazy smile on your face, and your eyes completely glossed over. slowly, because you’re not completely all there, your eyes trail towards andrei. your smile grows tenfold while you grab onto his hips. “hey there. come dance with me?"

"I don't know," he breathes softly, eyes moving over your body as if he’s trying to assess you. regardless, he can’t stop the smile that blossoms across his lips. “I think it’s probably time we go? no?”

you frown playfully, swaying until your chest is pushed against his. "please? just one dance. please, I love this song."

andrei doesn’t recognize the song, and considering you play him every single song you like at least 20 times in a row, he knows you’re lying, and this is just an excuse to get him on the dance floor.

because you have seemingly pushed away your vendetta with him for the moment, andrei decides that he’s taking this opportunity to be with you while things are normal. andrei sighs reluctantly, yet with a hint of enjoyment, and that has your face lighting up—because you can see the answer before he says it.

andrei lets you lead him into the middle of the crowded dance floor and to a spot you seem acceptable before turning in his arms, wrapping your own around his shoulders while his find your waist, completely enveloping you.

the music has slowed down, casting the room with a slow, romantic haze that makes your limbs tingle.

"if you're sick of me after this week and never want to see me again, I understand." andrei mutters after a minute, thick fingers flexing around your body, like he’s fighting an internal battle. one that he seems to win, because he then is pulling you flush against him.

your eyebrows pull towards your nose. "what? no. nothing could make me never want to see you again."

“I hope this weekend hasn’t been too overwhelming,” andrei starts, voice no higher than a whisper due to your proximity. “and i’m sorry again for…springing all this on you—quite literally last minute.”

you shake your head. “i’m not upset, andrei. i’m fine, you really don’t have to worry about me.”

this time, it’s andrei’s brows that turn down. “i’m always going to worry about you, y/n,” he swallows thickly, knees bending ever so slightly so he can better peer into your drunken eyes. “you’re my best friend.”

maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s pure exhaustion of fighting your feelings off for 8 years, but your bold question comes before you can deflect it. “and?”

your prompt makes andrei halt.

a beat passes and then andrei’s hand is running down the back of your head, smoothing your hair and you heart. “and.”

and right now—that unspoken knowing—is enough.

—

andrei brings you up the stairs of his childhood home two hours—and two chugged bottles of water—later. he gently guides you up the walkway, slowly and with his hand on your hip, guiding you and keeping somewhat of your stability in tact—your heels dangling from his index finger of his opposite hand.

he sits you on the edge of his navy bed once you’re back in the comfort of his old bedroom, ensuring that you’re okay before turning and shutting the bedroom door. your heels thump to the floor as he drops them next to the dresser.

andrei pulls his tie loose while spinning back on his heels. instead of the upright position he left you in, you’re now flat on your back, limbs all spread out and starfish like.

you’re not asleep. not yet. but rather grinning like a naughty child at andrei. your hair is fanned out against the covers, and there’s still some sweat lingering on your hair line from all the dancing and alcohol.

you’re quite literally glistening and andrei feels light headed.

"you can't fall asleep yet," he tells you, walking over to stand above you. with a delicate touch, he traces a finger over your thigh, and even through the material of your pale lemon dress, andrei can feel your body heat. "you have to change out of your dress, or else you’ll be mad at me when you wake up because it’s wrinkled."

you whine, "can you do it for me?”

your words are nothing but innocent, but his sex deprived brain doesn’t think the same way, and your whiny tone shoots right down to his dick. andrei swallows roughly, scratching at his chest twice before running his hand through his tousled hair.

you shift, the strapless hem of your dress slipping down just enough that it’s dangerous. andrei’s eyes instinctively dart away—just like the time they did three years ago when you’d been swimming at his place and your nipples got all pebbled under your bikini.

andrei curses under his breath.

you call his name and like the hopeless man he is, looks back at you. "please, i'm tired."

so, so hopeless.

andrei nods, grabbing ahold of your outstretched hands before pulling you back into your previous sitting position. your smile thickens and it has him feeling incredibly nervous.

"stand up for me." andrei requests quietly, and thankfully you agree with a simple nod, moving to stand on unsteady feet at the foit of the bed.

andrei doesn’t dare break eye contact. not when you’re so close that your scent is intoxicating and your bulging breasts are practically calling his name. without blinking or tearing his gaze from yours, his shaky hands reach around your body, blindly finding the clasp of your gown.

the clasp pops open, and you almost don’t catch the dress in time before it falls away to reveal your chest.

but andrei doesn’t stop there, his breathing heavy against you as he begins pulling down the small, yellow zipper. as andrei slowly begins tugging the zipper, revealing more and more of your bare skin, the more your breathing catches.

his knuckles graze against your skin, ilicting a hitched sigh from your plump, wine stained lips.

this exchange is quite possibly the hottest and most intimate thing either of you have every experienced, and nothing really has even happened. perhaps it the hesitant yet eager brushing touches that are making you light head. or perhaps it’s the eye contact between you.

it’s definitely the way your nipples have turned to diamonds, and andrei’s dick is sitting hot and heavy beneath his slacks though.

the zipper hits the end of the track with a soft clinking sound. andrei slowly lets the tag go, his hand smoothing over your hip as he begins to retract his touch.

you can feel his restraint. you can feel his desire.

"andrei," you whisper his name like a prayer. like a mantra. like it’s the password to the 8 year long puzzle between you. “i’m going to let the dress fall now.”

his gaze flickers. just far enough down to see the start of your dress and your barley concealed breasts. then, like gravity, andrei’s eyes find yours again.

“okay.” his voice is hoarse in a way that’s undeniable.

and then the dress hits the floor, the smell of your perfume puffing around you like a cloud as the material falls away. not even the smell of wine could over power your fruity scent.

he doesn’t look. he can’t. not when you’re still a little tipsy and he’s barley holding onto himself. instead, andrei brushes your hair away from your face, lingering on your cheek.

you swallow, “what are you thinking about?”

his answer comes like clockwork. “you.” andrei’s voice falters as you reach out, your much smaller fingers clumsily pulling at the buttons of his dress shirt. like your bodies know what happening before your heads do. as his summer skin becomes exposed, your hands find new home against his flesh.

andrei lick his lower lip and tilts your face up, towards his. "i'm always thinking about you."

and then, without hesitation or reluctance or anything else he’s been fronting since that night in that bar years ago, andrei slots his mouth against yours.

pushing up onto your toes, your grasp at his sides under his unbuttoned shirt, sighing against andrei’s mouth just as he does yours.

with his free hand, andrei grabs your hip, pulling your naked body flush against his, all while he expertly kisses and licks into your awaiting mouth.

after what feels like an eternity of switching between languid, slow kisses and heated hands and desperate kisses, andrei slowly guides you back down to his childhood bed, slotting between your open legs like it’s where he’s meant to be.

and perhaps, it is.

— day 4 THE MORNING AFTER

the sun beating on your back is what wakes you up the next morning. its bright and hot and too much for just opening your eyes. you groan out like a baby, pulling the covers up and over your head to further bury yourself in the cocoon of andrei’s bedding.

andrei.

your eyes snap open at a comical pace, and you sit up even quicker if that’s somehow possible. your eyes flicker towards the right side of the bed where just hours ago, andrei was curled against you. skin warm and bare against yours.

the spot is now empty.

the night comes back to you in movie like flashes. the drinking and the dancing. andrei’s calloused hands on your zipper and even more so on your skin. you sit there, still as a statue, as you remember how andrei kissed you—all over—and how his body rutted into yours like second nature.

the whispered praises and pleasure filled moans.

you remember it all.

and you remember, most of all, that you love him.

you don’t know if you should puke, cry, scream or just jump out the window. maybe all four.

you slip on the housecoat hung over the bed post, tying the string uncomfortably tight, just before slipping out of the bedroom. with last night still fresh, and your feelings practically drowning you, you know you need to find andrei—like yesterday—and tell him.

well, tell him as much as you can without choking on your own tears.

the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits your nostrils before anything else. you round into the kitchen and see elena and igor. they both grin politely, one of them offering you a drink—you’re not sure who because you’re too busy wondering where the hell andrei is to notice anything else.

the words tumble from you without a second thought, interrupting the dogs happy hopping at your ankles. “where's andrei?” and of course the cherry on top is your voice wavering.

elena’s eyes draw in confusion, her lips parting in wordless question.

“i'm here,” andrei’s familiar voice sounds from behind you. and instantly you feel like crying. he rounds to your front, looking freshly showered and clean in his shirt and athletic shorts. “you okay?”

“I just, I thought you left.” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself as embarrassment washes over you.

“no moya lyubov,” andrei coos with his native tongue, brows pulled tight in concern. he brings you into his arms despite the way your self hug makes it a little awkward. “just putting our bags in the car so it’s all ready to go for tonight.”

“oh right,” you nod, a little dumb. you lower your voice even more before continuing. “we should talk, right?”

“yeah, we should.”

you nod again, manoeuvring in andrei’s arms until you’re able to grasp at his fingers. “come upstairs with me? please.”

he hums. “of course.”

as soon as you’re back in his navy bedroom, and the door is heard softly shutting behind you, you’re nervously wringing your hands out. “you're my best friend.” you blurt out, robe slipping off your shoulder as it is inevitably, too big. as it is obviously andrei’s robe.

he fixes the shoulder so you’re covered again. “I know.”

you continue, heart racing and voice cracking despite andrei’s calm demeanour. “and I thought that these feelings I was pushing down were unreciprocated.”

“I know,” he mumbles, pushing your hair away from your neck. “me too.”

its something in the way he’s touching you—looking at you—that has you faltering. it’s like you’re his. like he’s in—oh.

“and now.” andrei continues.

“and now,” you breathe, “and now I want to kiss you again.”

andrei legs out a laugh. “you can.”

“but not just today,” you interrupt, “I want to kiss you everyday and wake up next to you everyday because I really fucking like you.”

“well,” andrei breathes, chest puffing as he takes an impossible step closer to you. he gently but confidently takes ahold of your face in his hands. caressing you like a porcelain toy. like a prized possession. like the greatest trophy in sports. “I really fucking like you too.”

you exhale.

but he’s not quite done with his love confession. after all, he has been thinking about it since 2018. “and I always have.”

your breath catches, curiously and hope gnawing at you like a moth to a flame. “since the bar?”

“since the second you stepped foot into that bar, y/n.”

a beat passes.

“this is kind of crazy, right? is this crazy?” you laugh in disbelief, continuing to look up at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky.

“absolutely,” andrei nods, thumbs brushing over your cheek bones. “but it's a good crazy. don't you think?”

“definitely.” you mumble through the beginning stages of a sheepish smile. your fingers itch to reach out and touch andrei, and unlike everyday before this one, you allow them to.

“okay then let’s bask in the crazy, yeah?”

A/N: okay. so! this definitely got a little rushed and I can only hopes this flows well enough to follow along with. and hopefully it makes sense and you catch the drift! I went through a writers block through this fic so a lot of the parts were spaced out (writing wise.

on another note—the rom com series is still happening. i’m just not sure when it will be out. i’m hoping for at least one before the summer ends, along with a few other goodies.

jo will girls and wyjo girls, get excited.

anyways this is just to say thank you for your patience and support like always.

[lovecla]

MAKE IT TO THE MORNING ; JACK HUGHES

PAIR jack hughes x fem!reader

SUMMARY being jack hughes’ girlfriend comes with a lot of hardships— but in the mornings, you realize it is all worth it.

WARNINGS unedited, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f. receiving), rough sex, p slapping, cockwarming, dirty talk, jack is lowkey a little shit, reader loves him tho, inspired by the song “make it to the morning” by partynextdoor. freaky af!!!

WORD COUNT 2,3k

FROM ME TO YOU a little late (literally, it’s like 3am for me), but this is my thank you gift for you guys because today i woke up with 700 of you!! i’m still too in shock to say anything besides thank you so much. i was celebrating 600 followers like a month ago and now this. i’ll keep working hard to give you guys good content <3 ily and pls enjoy

𖧷

don't scream or shout, i'm workin' my way down

girl, you gettin' loud, now put it in yo' mouth

THE SOUND of your heels clicking against the marble floor was enough to piss anyone off. It was annoying, repetitive and even you were starting to get tired of the little tec tec sound, but you couldn’t stop.

Dating Jack Rowden Hughes was not for the weak. And you knew that, more than anyone else. Being his girlfriend of three years— the longest time he has ever been in a relationship, mind you—, you knew that the prize was good, but the job of keeping it was tiring.

You stared at him across the room, talking to some random fans who definitely didn’t know what being a fan was, since they were all over him, with their hands on his arms and shoulders.

He eyed you from time to time, blue eyes making it hard for you to stay one hundred percent mad at him— truthfully, you knew that all it would take for you to forgive him for his playboy behaviour would be a single kiss and an aggressive make out session.

“It isn’t so fun watching from here, huh?” Quinn’s new fling, or whatever the girl standing beside you was, said, approaching you quietly. “Trust me, I know how it feels.”

You hummed, not engaging with her. You knew Jack wouldn’t actually do anything, but still, it didn’t feel nice to get painted as the dumb girlfriend who has to watch her famous boyfriend laugh and take pictures with hundreds of girls while she stands in the back.

“I’m lucky my Quinn isn’t as nearly as talkative as he is,” she continues, despite your silence. “But you know, Jack is everyone’s favorite.”

You turned your head to the side, watching the girl next to you eye Jack the same way she eyed Quinn, hungry and suggestive, and that was enough for you.

“Sorry,” you interrupted, putting your wine glass down— it had been empty for at least ten minutes— and smiling apologetically. “I have a terrible headache, so I think it’s time for me to head out.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” she pouts, and you can feel your eyes twitch. “It is pretty late too, so you must be tired.”

“Mhm.” You nod, looking at your phone. 3:46a.m.

“Do you want me to call Jacky?” She asks, expectantly, and the way she says his name makes you want to smash her face against the crumbles of cake sitting on the buffet table.

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry,” you play dumb. “It was nice seeing you…”

You forgot her name. It was probably something like Olivia or Madeline, but still. You didn’t remember.

“It was nice seeing you, too!” She says, apparently clueless to your lack of memory— and interest. “I’ll text you later so we can talk more.”

“Sure thing, yeah.” You walk towards Jack with long, careful steps. “Hey, babe.”

His eyes are on you immediately, his hair moving around with his abrupt move. He smiles, stepping out of the little circle the girls had made around him to wrap his arms around you.

“If it isn’t my favorite girl,” he says. “Hi, baby.”

You can feel the girls’ eyes on you, burning your skin like the fictional fairies’ whenever they touch iron. It is a feeling you are used to already, but you feel yourself shivering either way.

“Can we go?” You ask, bluntly ignoring the other women there. “It’s late.”

“Yeah, we can,” he nods, turning his head back to his little girl group before smiling at them. “See ya, ladies.”

See ya, ladies?

“Bye, Jack.”

“You’re the best!”

“See ya next time!”

You can’t hide your pout on your way home— you don’t even try to. You have your arms crossed in front of your chest as you sit in the front seat of Jack’s absurdly expensive car, listening to the quiet hum of his air conditioner and the annoying noise whenever he turns on the turn signal.

“You’re not mad… are you?”

His voice is tentative, almost as if he’s scared of asking the question.

“Are you kidding me? You spent half of that ridiculous party talking to women. Tell me I can’t be mad about that.” You hiss back, not looking at him. You know there are high chances of you folding bad if you do.

“Baby, I already told you, it’s all business,” he says, once again, because he has, indeed, told you that several times before. “I can’t have them saying I’m a rude guy, can I?”

“Sometimes I can’t believe the shit you say,” you scoff. “You literally told a reporter to fuck himself last week, on live. Talk about being a nice guy now, Jack.”

“Come on, you’re not being fair!” He exclaims, and you can hear the pout on his voice. “He talked shit about you. He was lucky I didn’t punch him in the face.”

You rolled your eyes, biting your lips to hide your smile.

Little does Jack know you jumped out of the couch when you saw the transmission and giggled while you sent texts to your best friend about how you would have to be the mother of his children.

You stayed silent, looking at the dark streets, briefly forgetting about your anger to notice how beautiful your city is. There weren't many people in the streets at that hour— it was summer, yes, but it was almost four a.m and it was still Monday, and a lot of people were still working.

When you got to your and Jack’s apartment— a two bedroom penthouse with plenty of space and a kitchen you still fell in love with every time you looked at it— you didn’t waste time before heading to the guest bathroom shower, a clear sign that you didn’t want Jack to join you, which you knew pissed him off.

You were quick even though you weren’t sleepy, washing the soap off your body under the lukewarm water; happy because it was your favorite scent.

You got out of the stall, opening the bathroom door after you wrapped the towel around your body, deciding to change inside your bedroom.

Or at least that’s what you thought you would do.

“Y/n.” Jack calls you, sitting on top of the bed.

“Fuck, Jack,” you grunt. “You scared me.”

“I can’t have you mad at me, baby,” he says, getting up and walking towards you, only stopping when your covered chest is touching his. “You know those women mean nothing.”

“Jack,” you sigh. “We’ve been here before. You can’t just say that every time you flirt with other women.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, but interrupts himself mid sentence. “You’re making shit up.”

“Am I?” You ask, holding the towel tighter. “You damn well I’m not.”

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not proud with the way I acted but I already told you—”

“It’s all business. I know, you know, we all know.” You roll your eyes, stepping back and moving forward so you can leave the room. His hand finds your waist almost immediately, locking you in place. “Jack—”

“You’re so full of complaints, baby,” he whispers. “Every time we go out you complain about something.”

“I wouldn’t complain if you didn’t give me reasons to.”

He clicks his tongue, running his fingers over your naked arms. You shiver slightly, hoping he doesn’t see it. “You want more?”

“More what?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

“More reasons to complain,” he continues, chuckling as he lowers his head and hides it in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Real reasons to complain.”

“Wha—”

“Because I’ll give them to you, if you want to,” he licks your skin, and you can feel yourself start to malfunction. He’s a little shit, you think, as you slowly start to give in. He’s a little shit and I’m in love with him. “Or I can keep your mouth full so you can’t complain anymore.”

He stands up straight again, staring at you while his fingers move to where you were holding your towel.

“What’s your pick, baby?” He whispers, removing your grip from the soft fabric around your body, letting it fall on the floor, like a puddle of water on your feet.

You’re fully naked, and he can’t even pretend he’s not looking— he is. He always is.

Jack kisses you with hungry, tender lips. He holds your neck while he licks your lips with his tongue, hot and messy. He tastes like beer and you hate it, but you cannot get enough.

You wrap your own arms around his neck, holding him so close to you you could feel his heartbeat. Kissing him never got old, and if you were to write down your top ten favorite things about Jack Hughes, his kiss would definitely be number one.

You breathe in his scent, your favorite ever since you met him, and you can feel your legs start to give in, just like the rest of your body. It’s late at night, almost morning, your body can’t keep up with your mind and you want to tell Jack to fuck off.

Yet.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips, as he guides you to the bed, laying you down with your hips on the edge of it. “Let me give you something to make noise about.”

That’s the only warning you get before he gets his knees on the floor and separates your legs, leaving you open and exposed. You feel his fingers spreading your lips open, and when his tongue finds its way to your clit, all of your previous complaints are gone.

You close your legs around his neck, holding him in place, while he puts on a show for you, his fingers tracing the wetness pouring out of you.

You let out a soft moan, holding his hair with your hands, not bothering to be gentle. His tongue found your clit again, rubbing it in slow, circular motions.

“Jack.”

You trash under him as he flicked your sensitive nub with his mouth, the wet noises making you want to disappear. Jack always seemed pleased to go down on you, but you still aren’t used to this fact about him.

“So sweet, baby,” he murmurs, the vibrations of his words sending shivers down your spine, as he dives in again.

He has you curling your toes and arching your back, moaning his name loud and proud, but still, he doesn’t stop. He slides his arms under your thighs, holding you in place by gripping your waist, hard.

He has you coming in under five minutes— it’s a shame it’s over so soon, but what can you do, really. He looks up at you between your thighs, and the sight alone has you moaning, desperate for something else.

You pull his hair, gently, signaling to him that you wanted him up, closer to you, and so he does. He kisses you again, and you get to taste yourself on his lips, moaning loudly inside his mouth when you feel his dick trapped between his body and yours.

“Jack,” you whisper again, placing both of your hands on his cheeks. “I need you.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” He says, chuckling as he gets off you and removes the rest of his clothes.

He slides inside you with no hesitation or whatsoever, knowing too well that your inside’s have his print all over it. You both moan loudly, louder than you should be moaning at four something in the morning, but you can deal with the complaint letter later.

He holds your legs together, pressing them against your chest, almost folding you in half. He is being rough, something you absolutely want to kill him for, but you let yourself enjoy the roughness for a moment; you can scold him later.

You can feel him deeper now, as your body gets dragged up and down against the mattress, making you want to scream.

“You’re wet,” he says through his teeth and you can tell he’s also giving in. “Y/n, fuck.”

You’re clenching around his length as he strokes your G spot, dragging his dick against your walls, once again making sure you can take everything he gives you.

“Harder.” You hear someone ask, probably yourself, and you also hear his low chuckle. “Not enough.”

“Still complaining?” He asks, but doesn’t give you time to answer. Instead, he removes his right hand from your waist and does the one thing he knows it will have you drooling and begging under him.

He slaps your pussy. The wet, loud sound that fills the room makes you squirm, unconsciously trying to remove yourself from his hold. But he’s stronger, always has been.

“Take it, baby.”

He then slaps you again, and again, and so many times you stop counting. The feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, and his rough slaps against your clit is enough to make you come, leaving you almost lifeless under him.

“Good girl, Y/n,” he says, kissing your lips, briefly. “I’m gonna come, fuck.”

“Inside, please,” you hear yourself mumbling, and you’re not even sure if Jack hears it.

“What was that, baby?” He asks, his thrusts getting sloppy.

“Inside?”

“Fuck,” he curses. “I’m—”

He cums inside you, the familiar feeling making you sigh with bliss. You are both panting, the room smells of sweat, alcohol and sex, and you swear you can see the sun start to rise through the bedroom’s floor to ceiling windows.

You’re just about to tell Jack you want to go to sleep when you feel him start to pull out, which has you protesting, immediately.

“No, I— sleep inside, please?”

His blue eyes are staring down at you, and now, there’s a hint of a smile plastered on his face. He nods once, manhandling you around until you’re under the sheets, with your back glued to his chest, and his length still nestled inside you.

“Well, if you’re still mad at me,” he whispers. “At least we made it to the morning, huh?”

“Shut up,” you whisper back, barely hiding your smile. “If you keep talking, there won’t be any other morning.”

He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “Very well, then.”

𖧷

NHL MASTERLIST. JACK HUGHES MASTERLIST

[theballadofharkness]

Mine to Manage (2/2)

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: At Continental Studios, power is currency and chemistry is collateral damage. You’re the sharp-tongued horror exec with a red-lip reputation and no patience for games. Maya Mason is the dangerously charming head of marketing with a Rolodex full of directors and a closet full of designer chaos. You were supposed to be keeping your relationship quiet, but when flirtation becomes a business strategy and jealousy starts bleeding through the seams, secrecy stops feeling smart.

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: explicit smut so as always MDNI 💜🪻

A/N: as promised here is part 2 of mine to manage!!

AO3 link: Mine to Manage

The energy in the room is already chaotic.

Sal’s pacing near the whiteboard with a pen tucked behind his ear like he’s about to diagram a hostage situation. Quinn is typing furiously on her tablet, brow furrowed, muttering to herself about “visual comps” and “emotional architecture.” Matt has two coffees in front of him, one half-finished, the other untouched, and looks like he slept in his car.

And Patty? Patty is in the corner sipping something very not coffee out of a Continental-branded mug, watching it all go down like it’s a particularly slow-motion car crash.

No one notices the door open. Not until it swings fully inward and you and Maya step inside.

Together.

You’re dressed like someone’s cool, terrifying ex-wife in soft linen, black silk, the kind of chic horror executive look that makes grown men second-guess their pitches. Dark lipstick. Composed. Effortlessly haunting.

Maya, beside you, is in full “don’t fuck with me” mode, slouchy designer trousers, vintage bomber, perfect skin, smug mouth. One hand in her pocket. One glance from her would level the room.

The second the team clocks you both, it goes quiet.

“Oh thank God,” Matt says, standing like you’re the cavalry.

Sal doesn’t even look up from his notes. “Okay, Maya, we need maximum charm. Like, pull-out-all-the-stops charm. This woman’s in the mood to be courted and Warner’s dangling a bigger check.”

Quinn looks up from her screen. “And if she doesn’t feel like the center of a Cannes-ready thinkpiece by the end of the hour, she’ll walk.”

“Didn’t even wear the blazer,” Maya says coolly, sliding into her seat at the table. “Bold of me.”

You take your spot a seat away from her, pretending your knees didn’t touch in the elevator, pretending she didn’t push you up against her bathroom mirror just hours ago whispering “mine” into your mouth.

Patty glances between the two of you with a vaguely amused look. She doesn’t say anything. But she clocks something.

Maya pulls out her tablet and casually crosses her legs, one foot bouncing. She leans slightly back, eyes sliding across the table to where you sit, still composed, still silent.

Matt claps his hands. “Alright. Team Continental. One last pitch, one last chance. Let’s close this thing.”

Maya leans forward, propping her chin on her hand like she’s bored and powerful and has absolutely no intention of playing fair.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye.

And she winks.

Like she didn’t make you come three times last night. Like she’s not about to flirt with someone else just to win. Like she’s daring you to keep it together.

And you? You square your shoulders. Fix your lip color. And dare her right back.

The energy is thick.

You’re seated at the long glass table, hands folded, your red lipstick sharp as a knife. You’ve been called terrifying by more than one junior executive and once by a producer who meant it as a compliment and never pitched to you again.

Across the table, Maya leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her gold jewelry catching the light, her smirk effortless.

And beside her, seated like a queen at the head of the table, is Olivia Hartley. Director. Visionary. Ridiculously talented. And currently eyeing Maya like she’s the main course at a tasting menu.

She’s dressed in an expensive sweater the exact shade of aged blood, hair twisted up in a way that says don’t fuck with me while she absolutely prepares to fuck with everyone.

Matt opens. “We’re thrilled to have you back, Olivia. Since our last conversation, we’ve done a lot of work on how this project would look at Continental. We believe in it. In your voice. In letting this story stay as uncompromising as it was when it landed in our inbox.”

Quinn jumps in. “This isn’t a pitch where we say all the right words and gut it later. We want to make your actual movie okay? Not the safe, marketing-friendly version. The weird, feral, uncomfortable thing you meant to write.”

You nod once, adding coolly, “We don’t buy scripts we plan to defang.”

Olivia smiles. She’s not here for the men.

Her eyes flick toward you, appreciative and curious, but then they slide right back to Maya.

“You brought your secret weapon,” she says smoothly.

Maya arches an eyebrow. “You wound me. I’m not that secret.”

Olivia leans back, draping an arm along the back of her chair. “I was talking about this,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward Maya’s whole body. “The quiet confidence. The good lighting. The fact that I already trust you to sell this better than anyone at Warner.”

Maya grins, not wide, but sharp. “I’m flattered.”

“Are you?” Olivia tilts her head. “You’re hard to read.”

“I’m very readable,” Maya replies, resting her chin on her hand, voice dropping. “You just need to know the language babe.”

You stare straight ahead, unmoving. Your nails dig slightly into your palm. You’re fine. You’re fine.

Quinn is furiously taking notes like this is a masterclass in queer chaos.

Matt gestures to you. “Y/N’s our head of unconventional horror development. She’s got a read on this genre like no one else in the industry.”

Olivia turns to you now, interested but still with that flirtatious gleam in her eye. Like she knows you’ve seen all the monsters and still thinks she could surprise you.

“And what’s your take?” she asks.

You meet her gaze evenly. “You’ve written a script about grief and power and gendered violence. I think it’s brilliant. And I think if anyone else gets their hands on it, they’ll sanitize it.”

Olivia hums, pleased. “And what would you do with it?”

You glance once at Maya. Then back. “Let it burn.”

Olivia smiles. “I like her.”

Maya smirks. “Yeah. Me too.”

You nearly flinch. It’s nothing. It’s harmless. It’s all part of the dance.

But your stomach coils tight.

Because Maya’s leaning closer now. Her voice is pitched lower, just for Olivia. She’s talking about rollout strategies, about festival positioning, about how to make this movie a moment. But she’s doing it the way she always does, with warmth and charm, and a gaze that lingers just a second too long.

And Olivia’s eating it up. Leaning in. Laughing. Touching Maya’s wrist when she makes a joke.

Your jaw clenches so tight it clicks. You lean back in your seat, red lips pressed into a perfect line. Cold. Controlled. Deadly.

Quinn nudges you gently, whispering, “You okay?”

You nod once.

But your eyes stay on Maya who’s now sliding her iPad across the table, letting Olivia scroll through a mock-up teaser campaign.

“This is how we sell it,” she says softly. “With teeth. With seduction. With the kind of marketing that hurts a little.”

Olivia murmurs, “I do like pain.”

Sal mutters, “Christ.”

Matt says, “If we’re doing taglines, maybe not that one.”

You don’t speak. Because if you do, your voice might crack. Not because Maya’s doing her job. But because you love her. And this is the part of her job you hate the most.

The presentation has dissolved into something else now.

Matt’s still trying to keep it tethered to reality, timelines, packaging, and pre-sales but the air has shifted. Like the power’s been pulled out of the spreadsheet and into the space between Maya and Olivia.

Olivia leans forward again, her hand on Maya’s iPad, fingers brushing hers like it’s casual, like it isn’t the third time she’s done it in fifteen minutes.

“This is impressive,” she says, voice low. “You get the tone. The tension. The way this story lives under your skin.”

Maya gives her that slow, knowing smile. The one that says, I know I’ve already won you. “Well,” Maya says smoothly, “I know how to sell possession. I’ve done it before.”

Your heart thumps. Hard.

Olivia lifts her eyebrows. “I bet you have.”

Quinn’s stylus freezes mid-note. Matt glances up, about to speak, then clearly decides not to. Sal’s grinning like he’s watching a particularly good episode of a show he didn’t have to pay for.

You lean back in your chair, arms folded, trying not to look at Maya. But every breath, every little laugh, is a needle beneath your skin.

Then Olivia does it. She rests her hand lightly, delicately, on Maya’s knee. The room holds its breath. And Maya? She just smiles. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks Olivia right in the eye and says, “We can talk about refining tone and rhythm. Maybe over lunch?”

Your spine stiffens.

Sal mutters under his breath, “Charm level: assassin.”

Matt looks mildly horrified but says nothing.

You keep your expression neutral, you’ve perfected the art of stillness. But your nails are digging into the armrest of your chair. Your jaw is locked.

And Maya knows.

She knows you’re watching. She knows what this is doing to you. And still, she lets Olivia lean in and say, “I’d like that. One-on-one’s always more illuminating, don’t you think?”

You nearly break the pen in your hand.

Maya finally, finally turns her head and glances at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for her eyes to ask something you don’t have an answer for.

But you meet her gaze. And you let her see just a flicker of the hurt behind the mask.

She blinks. Like maybe she wasn’t expecting that.

Olivia doesn’t notice, she’s still talking. “Your team is sharp,” she says. “But you? You know how to make people feel things.”

Maya doesn’t reply right away because now she’s looking at you and something in her has shifted. Her smile falters for just a fraction. And you know she’s finally realizing just how far this has gone. And how badly it’s hitting you.

The energy curdles.

The last of the actual meeting structure collapses into something looser, more dangerous.

Olivia’s still smiling. Still leaning toward Maya like a sunflower tracking the sun. Barely glancing at the rest of you anymore.

You sit there, arms folded across your chest, jaw locked so tight it aches. You’re not just mad, you’re humiliated.

Because you know you’re the scariest bitch in this room. You know you’re the one whose contacts made this project even possible. You know you’re the one whose name in horror means something real, not just a marketing tool, not just a pretty pitch face.

And yet here you are. Watching Olivia flirt with the woman you love like you’re furniture.

Matt tries, bless him, he tries. He clears his throat and shifts awkwardly. “I mean, Maya’s amazing obviously, but if we’re talking about horror credibility? Y/N’s the heavy hitter. She’s the one directors call when they want to push boundaries without getting studio notes killing the vibe.”

You lift your eyes slowly, fixing Olivia with a look like you could rip the skin off her bones if you cared enough to move.

Olivia, still smiling, tosses a polite but empty glance your way, and then she looks right back at Maya.

“Maybe Maya and I can workshop some ideas offline,” she says sweetly. “She seems to really get it.”

Your hands clench in your lap. You feel Quinn’s glance flick toward you. Even Sal looks a little uncomfortable now.

Matt, sensing the tension spike, plows ahead, desperate. “Y/N’s also the one who kept Harkness House from being turned into a Netflix slasher. She’s got pull at every major genre festival, if you want critical buzz, you want her on your team.”

You give Matt half a nod, quiet and controlled.

But Olivia barely registers it. She’s smiling at Maya again, only at Maya, as if Matt and Sal and Quinn and you aren’t even in the room.

“You’ll love working with us,” she says, voice steady. “Promise.”

Olivia smirks. “I already do.”

Olivia slides the signed agreement across the table, all smiles and gloss and knowing.

You sit there, straight-backed, spine made of steel, as Olivia reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a sleek, black business card and writes something on the back.

Then she slides it across the table, not to Matt, not to Quinn, not to Sal. To Maya. “In case you want to brainstorm… privately.”

Quinn, bless her, is the first to move, standing quickly. “Let me walk you out, Olivia. Reception’s a nightmare this time of day.”

Olivia beams. “Such service.”

Maya offers a polite, perfectly professional smile, the one she uses when she wants people to think they’ve gotten something from her.

You watch as Quinn escorts Olivia out of the room, her heels clicking down the hallway.

As soon as the door shuts a heavy silence falls over the boardroom.

You slump back into your chair, muscles unwinding in a kind of exhausted fury, hand dragging down your face. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, voice deadpan. “I fucking hate that woman.”

Sal barks out a laugh, clapping a hand on the table. “Right? What a piece of work.”

“Seriously,” Matt says, shuffling the papers Olivia left behind. “She’s brilliant, but Christ, she’s got the social subtlety of a brick.”

“I don’t know,” Quinn says, reappearing in the doorway with a wicked little smirk. “I thought she was very subtle. You know, when she practically mounted Maya in front of us.”

Sal snorts.

You roll your eyes and pick up a pen just to have something to do with your hands.

You know Maya’s watching you. You can feel the way her chair creaks as she shifts. The way the energy between you stretches so taut you think you might snap from it. You don’t look at her, you can’t, because if you do, you might break. And she knows it.

Maya stands slowly before crossing the space between you with that slow, deliberate Maya Mason energy, all gravity, all purpose, all you.

You glance up, finally.

And then she kisses you.

Hard.

Right there, in the middle of the goddamn boardroom.

No warning. No hesitation.

Her hands frame your face, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back as her mouth claims yours in a kiss that’s messy, desperate, hungry.

Sal makes a strangled noise.

Matt blurts, “Oh my God.”

Quinn just mutters, “Finally.”

You gasp against her mouth, shocked and breathless, but she doesn’t let you pull away. She kisses you again, deeper, slower this time, like she’s trying to pour every fucking apology she can’t say into your mouth instead.

When she finally pulls back, you’re blinking up at her, stunned.

And Maya, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, just smirks and says “you’re mine. I don’t care who sees it anymore.”

The room is dead silent but you don’t care either. You just grab her by the jacket and kiss her right back.

You’re still wrapped around her, your hand fisted in the front of her jacket, your lips tingling, your breath short. Maya’s looking down at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

Around you, chaos is setting in.

Sal’s half-standing, wide-eyed.

Matt’s blinking rapidly like he’s trying to reboot his brain.

Quinn’s just smirking into her coffee cup, clearly thrilled.

Matt clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. So. Like… HR’s probably gonna have questions about this.”

Your face is burning. You press your forehead into Maya’s shoulder, hiding, completely and utterly wrecked.

Maya just shrugs. “Don’t care anymore.”

She kisses the top of your head, casual and possessive. “They can send whatever passive-aggressive emails they want. She’s important.”

Her voice drops just for you. “You’re important.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, clinging tighter to her jacket like you can anchor yourself there.

Quinn pipes up, setting her tablet down with a loud thunk. “Well, they can’t fire either of you unless they want the horror division and marketing to implode overnight, so… power couple immunity?”

Sal’s laughing helplessly now. “Jesus. First Olivia trying to fuck her way onto the slate, now this.”

Matt, still recovering, mutters, “Okay, okay, okay. Let’s… maybe not shout that part.”

You finally peek up at Maya, blushing, lips parted, eyes wide, and she just grins at you, big and smug and wrecked herself in the best way. She’s still holding your face in her hands like she’s staking a claim. Still looking at you like you’re the only thing she’s ever been sure about.

“You’re mine,” she says again, softer this time. Fiercer. “And I’m not hiding it anymore.”

Your fingers tighten in her jacket, helplessly needy for her.

Sal raises an eyebrow. “Are you guys gonna bang it out on the conference table or should we clear the room?”

You bury your face back into Maya’s chest as she laughs, deep, warm, and happy. She presses a kiss to your hair again, then leans down to whisper in your ear, “let them talk.”

And you believe her.

The second the boardroom door swings shut behind you, Maya’s hand is on your wrist, tugging.

You barely stumble after her, your heart slamming against your ribs, your cheeks still flushed from the public kiss, the heat of everyone’s stares.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just drags you down the hallway like she owns you, her fingers tight around your wrist, her pace fast, hungry, unstoppable.

You pass two assistants. A junior creative. Tyler, who just raises an eyebrow and keeps walking. You’re breathless by the time she shoves the door to her office open and yanks you inside.

The door slams shut.

The lock clicks.

You don’t even have time to gasp before Maya crowds you against it, her hands braced on either side of your head, trapping you there.

“You’re mine,” she breathes, voice low and rough. “Say it.”

You look up at her, wide-eyed, lips parted. “Maya I-”

“No.” She leans in, her nose brushing yours. “Say it.”

You shiver. “I’m yours.”

Her hand tangles in your hair and pulls, just enough to tip your chin up, and she devours you, kissing you hard, teeth scraping your bottom lip until you gasp. She takes advantage, sliding her tongue into your mouth, owning you all over again.

You’re already trembling.

Her hand trails down, rough and deliberate, along your ribs, your waist, your hips. She hikes your skirt up without ceremony, sliding her fingers between your thighs, groaning when she finds you soaking.

“All this for me?” she murmurs, voice dark and fucking delighted.

You whimper.

She presses you harder against the door, two fingers teasing at your entrance, not inside yet, just hovering, driving you insane.

“You get so needy for me,” she whispers, kissing your throat, your jaw, your cheekbone. “So desperate.”

You nod frantically, grabbing at her jacket, pulling her closer. “Please,” you gasp.

“Please what?” she says, smug and deadly.

“Please touch me,” you beg, voice cracking.

She smirks. “That’s better.”

Finally, finally, she slides her fingers inside you, deep, slow, curling just right, and you nearly sob from the relief.

“Fuck, you feel good,” she growls, grinding her palm against your clit, building a rhythm that has your knees buckling in seconds.

You cling to her, nails digging into her shoulders, letting her fuck you against the door like you’re the only thing that matters.

Like she’s the only thing that matters.

“You’re mine,” she says again, punctuating it with a thrust that makes you cry out.

“Always.”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Yours.”

Her mouth finds yours again, swallowing your broken moans, her body pinning you to the door like she can’t stand being even an inch away from you.

You come hard, gasping her name, shuddering against her as she rides you through it, kissing you softer now, sweeter, like a promise.

When you finally collapse against her, boneless and shaking, she just holds you there, strong, steady, hers.

You bury your face in her neck, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat hammering against yours.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” you whisper.

She laughs against your hair. “And you love it.”

You smile, exhausted, blissed-out. “I love you.”

She kisses your forehead, soft and sure. “I know.”

You’re still trembling in her arms, clothes rumpled, breathing uneven.

Maya kisses the top of your head again, slower now, more reverent, her fingers smoothing down your spine like she’s trying to anchor you back to earth.

You cling to her for another minute, letting yourself just exist in the safety of her body.

Eventually, Maya pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing under your eye, catching the stray smudge of mascara, like it matters.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re all wrecked,” she says, grinning.

You laugh, hoarse and exhausted. “You’re so cocky,” you murmur, nuzzling into her neck.

“I have reason to be,” she teases, kissing your forehead again.

You let her fuss with your clothes, smoothing your skirt back down, fixing your hair a little, licking her thumb and wiping your smudged lipstick (terribly, messily, so you’re sure you still look like you’ve been thoroughly ruined).

But you can’t let her go. Not completely. Not yet. You press your hand to her chest, feel her heartbeat thudding under your palm and look up at her.

And you ask softly, “what made you change your mind?”

She stills for a second. You see it, the flash of nerves, the memory of earlier, the look she gave you when Olivia slid her number across the table.

Maya exhales “I saw you,” she says finally, voice low.

You blink.

“I saw your face,” she says again. “When she touched me. When she handed me her number. When you just… sat there, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you.”

Your throat tightens.

Maya cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone gently. “And I realized,” she says, “that you were sitting there, trying to be professional, trying to protect me even while I was letting her flirt with me for a deal.”

You shake your head and try to protest but she leans in, kisses you softly to stop you.

“I realized,” she says again, voice thick, “that hiding you wasn’t protecting us anymore.”

You feel your eyes sting.

Maya leans her forehead against yours. “I don’t want you to ever sit there like that again,” she whispers. “Like you’re not the most important thing in the room.”

You close your eyes, breathing her in, letting the words settle into all the broken places inside you.

“And I don’t care what anyone says,” she murmurs. “I don’t care if Sal makes filthy jokes, if Quinn writes fanfiction about us, if HR sends us passive-aggressive policy updates.”

You laugh, a watery, broken thing.

She tilts your face up. “I love you,” she says again, like she’s daring the world to take it from her. “I love you and I’m not hiding it.”

You nod, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

She kisses you slow, careful, devastatingly tender. It’s not rushed, it’s home.

~

The fairy lights overhead glow soft gold against the purple dusk. It’s warm but not sticky, the kind of rare, perfect LA night that feels almost cinematic.

The table is small, intimate, tucked into a corner of the patio like it was made just for you and Maya. You’re holding her hand across the table, your thumb brushing lazy circles over her knuckles. Every now and then, she lifts your hand to her mouth and kisses your fingers, casual, almost absent-minded, like she can’t help herself.

You’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

“This feels illegal,” you tease, voice soft, a little breathless.

Maya smirks that lazy, devastating smirk that undid you the first time you ever sat across a table from her. “It is. HR’s already plotting. Probably a whole color-coded dossier.”

You laugh and nudge her foot under the table, playful and giddy.

She leans in slightly, voice dropping to that dangerous low that makes your stomach flip. “Let them.”

You’re about to say something when a shout slices through the soft night air.

“NO FUCKING WAY!”

You both whip your heads around just in time to see Sal barreling across the street, dodging traffic like a lunatic. Matt is following behind, trying and failing to look cool while carrying a six-pack of beer. And then there’s Quinn striding purposefully like she owns the sidewalk, phone tucked under her arm.

Maya groans immediately, dropping her forehead to the table. “No. No. No. No.”

You’re laughing already, helpless, delighted, hiding behind your menu as Sal practically sprints onto the patio.

“You two are on a DATE?!” he bellows, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear.

Maya lifts her head just enough to glare at him. “Indoor voice, jackass.”

Sal drags a chair over and Matt and Quinn aren’t far behind, grabbing chairs from neighboring tables like they own the place.

You glance at Maya, wide-eyed.

She looks murderous.

You look back at your friends, your weird, dysfunctional little work family, and sigh. “Apparently, yes. This was supposed to be a date.”

Matt plops the six-pack down between you all like an offering. “It can still be a date,” he says, overly cheerful. “With, you know, a live studio audience.”

Maya makes a strangled noise.

Quinn’s already flagging down a server. “We’re celebrating,” she says brightly. “Olivia signed. You two kissed in a boardroom. It’s a banner fucking day.”

You bury your face in your hands.

Sal leans across the table, grinning like a wolf. “Okay. How long has this been happening?”

Maya raises an eyebrow, wrapping her arm casually around the back of your chair, pulling you in without even thinking about it.

“A while,” she says smoothly.

“How long’s ‘a while’?” Sal pushes, waggling his eyebrows.

You glance at Maya.

She shrugs.

“A few months,” you admit.

“MONTHS?!” Sal yelps.

Matt chokes on his beer. Quinn just laughs.

“Explains so much,” Quinn says, stealing a breadstick. “Like why Y/N always looked ready to commit a felony when Maya flirted with anyone under 35.”

Maya smirks.

You glare at Quinn, cheeks flaming.

Sal, clearly having the time of his life, leans in again. “Okay, okay, but WHO made the first move?”

Maya’s grin is predatory. “She did.”

You elbow her in the ribs, scandalized. “You kissed ME first!”

Matt leans forward eagerly, completely enthralled.

“What about the ‘I love you’? Who dropped the bomb first?”

Maya snickers. “She did. Sobbed it, actually.”

You gasp, mortified. “I did NOT sob-”

“There were tears,” Maya says serenely, sipping her wine.

Quinn raises her hand like she’s in class. “Follow-up: what’s the over-under on how long until you two get banned from making out at work?”

You groan into your hands again.

Maya just smirks and tugs you closer under her arm, kissing your temple unapologetically. “Let ‘em try,” she murmurs, and the confidence in her voice makes your whole body warm.

The server comes back, setting down more wine, a couple plates of food you didn’t even remember ordering.

The table settles into that easy, buzzing chaos you always secretly loved, Quinn telling some terrible story about her early days in indie film making, Sal making increasingly filthy jokes at your expense, Matt trying to referee and failing miserably.

You and Maya keep sneaking touches, your hand on her thigh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of your neck. Every so often, she leans down to kiss your hair, or your cheek, or your jaw.

Halfway through a shared plate of pasta, Matt raises his glass. “To the best fucking team in the business,” he says.

Everyone clinks.

Maya clinks her glass against yours last, leaning in so only you can hear, “to you.”

You flush so hard you have to hide in your wine glass. But you can’t stop smiling.

The patio is loud now, your little table tucked away, half-devoured plates and abandoned menus spread out between clinking glasses and crumpled napkins.

Sal’s halfway through a story about his failed attempt to get cast in a Lifetime movie in his twenties, complete with terrible reenactments.

“I’m telling you,” he says, raising a breadstick like a mic, “the casting director told me I had ‘too much chaotic energy’ for a Christmas movie. Me! Chaotic!”

Matt’s crying laughing, slumped over his chair, while Quinn actually wipes a tear from her eye.

“You are chaotic,” Quinn says, shaking her head.

“You’re the reason we needed two lawyers at the ‘Flesh and Bone’ premiere,” Matt adds, snorting.

Sal shrugs. “You’re welcome for the stories.”

Maya leans back, her arm slung lazily around your shoulders, smirking into her wine like she’s been waiting for this all night. You’re tucked under her side, warm and loose and happy, letting yourself laugh, letting yourself have this.

“Okay, okay,” Matt says, sitting up, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter. “Serious question now. Was it, like, obvious to everyone that you two were hooking up? Or are we just idiots?”

You start to speak, to say something deflective, something smart, but Quinn cuts in immediately. “Oh, it was obvious.”

Sal nods sagely. “Painfully obvious.”

Matt throws his hands up. “WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME?!”

“It was more fun this way,” Quinn says, grinning.

Maya just smirks, tugging you closer by the waist.

“You’re all just mad that we’re hotter than you,” she teases.

“You’re not wrong,” Quinn deadpans.

Everyone laughs again, real belly laughter that bubbles up and fills the whole patio like champagne. You’re so full of warmth you feel like you might float away.

“I’m just saying,” Sal says, raising his hands, “I think we deserve a full timeline of the relationship for context.”

You glance at Maya.

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “First date was the Harkness House premiere party,” she says casually.

Quinn gasps. “No. Way.”

“Way,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

“You mean when Y/N disappeared for like an hour and came back looking like she’d seen God?” Sal demands.

You choke on your wine.

Maya just laughs, rich and smug, and kisses your temple again like it’s her trophy.

“Good memory,” she says to Sal.

You’re about to shove her or kiss her senseless, maybe both, when Matt glances at your wine glass.

“Hey, you’re almost empty. You want me to… ?”

You shake your head, already standing, tugging your skirt down. “I’ll get it.”

Maya’s hand slides down your back as you pull away.

You weave through the tables toward the little outdoor bar, heart pounding a little faster now from the wine and the heat of her touch. When you reach the bar, you wave for the bartender, just as someone leans in close behind you. You don’t have to turn. You know it’s her.

Maya presses in at your back, crowding your space, her mouth brushing your ear. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re laughing,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “I’m gonna mess you up when we get home.”

You shiver.

She trails a finger down the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Gonna make you beg for it,” she whispers. “Gonna take my time. Make sure you remember exactly who made you feel this good.”

Your whole body tightens, heat pooling low in your belly, your knees actually wobbling a little.

The bartender appears and you barely manage to stammer out your drink order, blushing so hard you’re sure you’re glowing.

Maya’s still pressed against you, her hand casually sliding down your hip, fingertips teasing along the hem of your skirt, invisible to everyone else but undeniable to you.

She nips at your ear once, playfully. “Can’t wait to have you, baby.”

You turn just enough to glare at her, breathless and wrecked and so in love it hurts.

She grins, all teeth and wicked promises, and pulls back just in time for the bartender to set your drink down.

You grab it, trying to look normal, trying to breathe normally. You fail miserably.

You glance back over your shoulder at her as you walk away and Maya is just standing there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the bar, watching you like a fucking meal.

You want to run to her.

You want to crawl into her lap.

You want to skip dinner and let her wreck you the way she just promised.

But instead you walk back to your chaotic, beautiful little family with your heart racing, thighs pressed together, a smile tugging at your mouth, and sit back down like you aren’t dying for her.

Maya follows a second later, dropping lazily into her seat, sliding her foot up the inside of your calf under the table. And you can’t stop smiling.

~

The Uber pulls up, a sleek black SUV, and you barely finish saying your goodbyes to Sal, Matt, and Quinn when Maya’s already tugging your hand, pulling you toward the car like she’s seconds away from losing her mind.

You climb into the backseat first, scooting across.

Maya slides in after you way too fast, way too eager, and slams the door behind her.

The driver asks your address, barely glancing back.

You rattle Maya’s address off automatically, heart hammering.

The second the car pulls into traffic, Maya’s hand is on your thigh, very high up on your thigh, her fingers slipping under the hem of your dress like she can’t wait another second.

You inhale sharply, glancing at the driver. But Maya doesn’t care. She leans in slowly, deliberately, her breath hot against your ear.

“I can’t fucking wait,” she whispers.

Before you can respond, her mouth crashes into yours, messy, hungry, and desperate. You moan into her kiss, grabbing at her jacket, pulling her closer, needing her like oxygen.

FHer hand slides higher, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh, dangerously close to where you’re already aching for her.

The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongue and panting breath, and it’s taking everything you have not to climb into her lap right there.

Maya groans against your mouth, like she’s barely holding herself back. Her other hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you close, tilting your head just right so she can kiss you deeper, wetter, harder.

You break away for half a second, gasping. “Maya,” you whisper, glancing at the oblivious driver.

She grins wickedly and kisses along your jaw, your throat, her teeth scraping just enough to make your stomach drop.

“He’s not looking,” she murmurs against your skin.

“Let him hear how pretty you sound when you come apart for me.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and she smirks against your pulse. Her fingers slip higher, brushing the edge of your panties, making your whole body jolt.

You grab her wrist, half to stop her, half to keep her there. “You’re evil,” you hiss, breathless.

“You love it,” she breathes back, pressing her forehead against yours, her hand moving slow and torturous.

You’re panting now, clutching at her, eyes fluttering shut as she teases you, light strokes over the thin fabric, just enough pressure to make you squirm.

Maya kisses you again, slower this time, more purposeful, dragging it out, savoring the way you melt under her.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with her. You can barely think, barely breathe, your whole body tuned to her touch.

“When we get home,” she whispers against your mouth, her fingers pressing just a little harder, “I’m gonna make you scream so loud the neighbors complain.”

You whimper, thighs clenching around her hand.

She chuckles, dark and pleased. “You’re already so fucking wet for me, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Such a good girl.”

You can’t take it anymore.

You kiss her hard and messy, your fingers fisting in her jacket, hips rolling up into her hand without thinking.

The car slows. The driver clears his throat.

You both freeze. Maya pulls back, barely, her grin pure sin.

You glance out the window, her place. You’re home. You scramble out of the car, faces flushed, hearts racing. Maya tosses a deservedly large tip onto the front seat and practically drags you toward the door. You don’t even make it to the elevator before she’s kissing you again, wild, hungry, already desperate to finish what she started.

You’re both laughing, breathless and unhinged, as you stumble up the steps to her home, clutching at each other like you might fall over.

Maya’s got her keys out, but she’s moving slow, teasing, bumping her hip into yours, sneaking kisses against your jaw between giggles.

“Your Uber rating is about to tank,” you gasp, grinning wide.

Maya snorts, grabbing your wrist and spinning you into her chest. “Worth it,” she says, mouth hovering over yours, teasing.

“You’re gonna be banned from the app,” you whisper against her lips, giggling.

She kisses you, quick and hard, and finally manages to jam the key into the door, dragging you inside.

The second the door shuts behind you, it’s on.

Maya crowds you up against the wall, kissing you messy, desperate, hands already tugging at your clothes like she can’t stand the layers between you anymore. “Need you,” she mutters against your mouth, frantic. “Need you right now.”

You whimper, nodding, letting her pull your jacket off, letting her hike your dress up with greedy, rough hands.

Her mouth is everywhere, your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping just enough to leave marks you’ll see tomorrow and smile at.

You grab at her jacket, shoving it off her shoulders, needing to touch her, needing to feel her, skin on skin.

She growls low in her throat when your nails rake down her back.

“Bed,” you gasp against her mouth, dizzy from the speed of it, the need of it.

Maya shakes her head, wicked and grinning. “Can’t wait.”

She slides to her knees right there in the hallway, yanking your panties down, gripping your thighs and looking up at you with pure, feral hunger.

“Hold onto the wall, baby,” she says, voice low and ragged. “Gonna make you scream my name like I promised you would.”

You barely get your hand against the wall before she’s on you, her mouth hot and wet against you, her tongue sliding through your folds, finding your clit instantly, sucking hard.

You wail, no chance of being quiet, your head thunking back against the wall, your legs shaking.

Maya moans against you like she’s starving, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know you’ll bruise, loving it, dragging her tongue over you again and again.

You’re babbling, gasping her name, begging without even meaning to. “Maya, oh my God, please- please!”

She pulls back just enough to murmur against your soaking core, “such a good girl.”

Then she dives back in, licking you through it, coaxing it out of you until you’re shaking against the wall, coming hard on her mouth, sobbing her name just like she said you would.

Your knees give out and Maya catches you, strong arms lifting you easily, carrying you down the hall toward the bedroom.

You’re still gasping, blinking through the haze, clinging to her.

She drops you onto the bed, rough but careful, and climbs over you, tearing her shirt off in one smooth motion.

You stare, wrecked and wanting and so in love you could die.

Maya leans down, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. “Not done with you yet,” she whispers against your lips.

You whimper, spreading your legs for her instinctively, needing more, all of her.

She smiles, dark, dangerous, so fucking in love. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m gonna ruin you, baby.”

You’re panting, wrecked already, but Maya’s not even close to finished with you.

She kneels over you on the bed, straddling your hips, her hair wild and messy around her face, her body flushed from exertion and need.

You can’t stop staring at her, her strong thighs bracketing your hips, toned arms flexing as she pins you down, that smirk on her face that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

You’re so far gone for her it hurts.

She kisses you, slow and filthy, licking into your mouth like she’s tasting her favorite thing.

You whimper against her lips, hips bucking up against her, desperate for more.

Maya chuckles low in her throat, reaching down to trap your wrists above your head with one hand.

“Stay,” she murmurs.

You nod, wide-eyed, pliant under her.

She kisses down your body, your throat, your collarbone, your chest, nipping and sucking little bruises into your skin that you’ll wear like trophies tomorrow.

Her mouth finds your breast, sucking one nipple into her mouth, biting just enough to make you gasp.

You arch into her, desperate, and she growls, sliding her free hand between your legs again, slipping two fingers inside you with no resistance at all.

You moan, high pitched and broken, your body twisting under her.

She pumps her fingers slow and deep, dragging pleasure out of you with ruthless precision. “Such a good girl,” she murmurs against your skin. “Take it. Come for me again.”

You’re sobbing now, thighs shaking, barely able to hold still as she works you open until you’re coming again, gasping her name like a prayer. She kisses you through it, letting you ride it out, never letting you drift too far. And when you slump, boneless and wrecked, she finally pulls back.

You blink up at her and reach for her without thinking, needing to touch her, needing to give her back even a fraction of what she’s given you. You push yourself up onto trembling elbows and kiss along her jaw, her throat, her chest, tasting her skin, feeling her shudder under your mouth.

Maya lets you for a moment. Then her hand fists in your hair, tilting your head up to look at her. Her pupils are blown wide. Her voice is wrecked. “You want to make me feel good, baby?”

You nod frantically.

“Use your mouth,” she says, voice thick with hunger. “Worship me.”

You scramble eagerly, kissing your way down her body, hands worshipful, greedy even, over her ribs, her stomach, her hips. You settle between her thighs, looking up at her once, asking permission without speaking.

Maya cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “Good girl,” she breathes. “Make me come on that pretty mouth.”

You moan at the praise and dive in, licking a slow, wet stripe up her center, savoring the way she gasps, the way her hips twitch. You flatten your tongue against her clit, circling slow and steady, letting her grind against you, riding your mouth with low, broken moans.

She keeps one hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just guiding, while the other fists the sheets.

You suck her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue against it, and her thighs clamp around your head as she curses under her breath.

“Fuck, baby… just like that, don’t you dare stop-”

You moan into her, desperate to make her fall apart, desperate to give her everything, and the vibration makes her shudder above you.

She’s close.

You can feel it in the way her muscles tighten, the way her moans get sharper, the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“Gonna come all over your fucking face,” she pants, voice breaking. “Take it, baby. Be good for me.”

You flick your tongue faster, swirling around her clit, sucking harder, and she breaks, hips grinding against your mouth, a deep, guttural moan tearing out of her as she comes.

You ride it out, tongue gentle now, soothing her through it until she’s gasping, yanking you up by your hair and crashing her mouth against yours.

The kiss is filthy, wet and desperate, her taste all over both of you, and you can’t stop whimpering into her mouth.

She pushes you down into the mattress again, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you, still trembling a little from how hard you made her come. You’re clinging to her, hands greedy on her back, her hips, anywhere you can reach.

She finally breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against yours, both of you panting, wrecked. “Fuck,” she whispers, voice shaking. “You’re mine.”

You nod, dizzy, drunk on her. “Yours.”

She kisses you again, slower now, more tender, like sealing a promise. “Always.”

You’re both a mess.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, your skin sticky with sweat, your mouth swollen from kissing for what feels like hours. You’re still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, whole body humming from everything she did to you and everything you gave back.

Maya’s draped over you, half her weight pressing you into the mattress, her arm slung lazily across your waist, her face buried in the curve of your neck.

You run your fingers through her messy hair, slow and soothing. Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being.

Finally, Maya groans low against your throat. “We’re disgusting,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.

You laugh, soft, wrecked, and nuzzle into her hair.

“We’re perfect,” you mumble.

Maya huffs out a breath, kisses your collarbone. Then she pushes herself up, stretching like a cat, muscles rippling under flushed, golden skin.

You whimper at the loss of her warmth, already reaching for her again without thinking.

She grins down at you, smug, fond, completely in love, and taps your nose. “Nope. Stay there. You’re on clean-up duty after I get you washed up.”

You blink up at her, dazed and confused. “Washed up?”

She smirks and leans down, kissing you slow and sweet. “Baby, you’re all messy. Can’t have my girl falling asleep all sticky and ruined.”

You blush, squirming under her teasing tone, but you don’t argue when she scoops you up into her arms like you weigh nothing.

You squeak, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Maya! Put me down!”

She just laughs, deep and wicked, and carries you toward the bathroom.

“Not a chance, baby. You’re all mine to take care of now.”

~

The light is low, warm. The air smells like her shampoo and skin and safety.

Maya sets you down on the counter, grabbing a fluffy white towel from the rack.

She wets it under the tap and then turns back to you, standing between your legs, nothing but adoration in her eyes.

She’s so gentle. Wiping your skin clean, slow and careful, whispering little nonsense under her breath.

“So good for me.”

“So fucking beautiful.”

“My best girl.”

You bite your lip, heart aching at the tenderness of it.

She presses soft kisses to your knees, your thighs, the inside of your wrists as she works, like she can’t not touch you, not love you even in the smallest ways.

“There,” she says, kissing your forehead. “All clean. All mine.”

You’re blinking back tears now, overwhelmed, exhausted, and feeling so loved.

She notices immediately, cradling your face in her hands. “Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”

You try to speak, to say nothing, I’m fine, it’s stupid,but the words knot in your throat.

And then?

You break.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

Followed by another.

And another.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified, turning your head like you can hide from her.

But Maya’s already pulling you into her chest, arms wrapping tight around you, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, rocking you gently. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

You look up at her, sniffling. “Just love you,” you croak.

Maya’s smile is devastating.

She scoops you back into her arms, carrying you bridal style back to the bed.

“Love you too baby,” she murmurs.

You’re curled up together under the fresh sheets now, your body tucked against hers, her hand stroking lazy patterns across your back. You’re so sleepy you’re slurring your words, every blink getting heavier.

Maya kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple, like she can’t stop loving you, even in sleep. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she whispers into your hair.

You mumble something incoherent but happy against her chest.

She smiles, huge and soft and wrecked, and holds you tighter. “Night baby,” she murmurs again, like a lullaby.

And you fall asleep like that. Safe, loved, hers.

~

The studio was humming in that particular way it did before big meetings, an electric buzz threaded with coffee and tension. In the boardroom, the team had already gathered, scattering papers, coffee cups, and open laptops across the table like the aftermath of a tiny storm.

Matt paced back and forth along the window, running a hand through his hair every few minutes, mumbling through final points under his breath. Every third step he juggled his phone and a stress ball, managing to forget he was holding one half the time.

Sal was sprawled in one of the chairs, tipping precariously backward on two legs, popping gummy bears into his mouth with the air of a man watching a slow-motion car crash he had no plans to stop. His oxfords squeaked every time he adjusted, but no one commented anymore.

Quinn perched on the edge of the table, scrolling through her iPad with quick, efficient flicks of her fingers, occasionally plucking binder clips from the clutter and stacking them into a tiny, precarious tower.

And then there was Maya.

Maya Mason in all her casually disheveled, absurdly expensive glory. She lounged in a chair, stretched out with one boot propped on the table’s edge, slouching like a woman who owned the building but hadn’t decided if she was bored with it yet.

Today’s look was pure Maya: streetwear chaos dressed up with a fortune’s worth of quiet branding. She wore an oversized Balenciaga denim jacket, the kind that slouched just so off one shoulder to reveal a threadbare Amiri tee underneath, black and loose and soft against her skin. Her cargo pants were black, loose, low on her hips like an afterthought, and scuffed Rick Owens boots were laced halfway, heavy and lived-in.

A jumble of delicate gold chains swung lazily around her neck as she leaned back, gum snapping quietly between her teeth. On her wrist, the slim glint of a Cartier bracelet caught the light when she toyed with the Montblanc pen in her hand, rolling it between her fingers like she had all the time in the world.

She looked every bit the reason Olivia Hartley had signed with Continental instead of Warner Brothers.

Quinn flicked her gaze up and smirked. “Think you can behave today?” she asked.

Maya quirked an eyebrow without lifting her head. “Define behave.”

Matt shook his head, shooting a look toward the door. “Let’s not add another clause to the HR manual, okay?”

“Not my fault,” she said with a lazy shrug. “Some of us have natural talents.”

Matt checked his watch. “Where’s Y/N?”

Maya’s hand went into the pocket of her jacket without thinking, pulling out her phone, checking it like she hadn’t already ten times. She tried to look casual about it.

“Tied up with Ari Aster,” she said, tossing the phone back down with a clatter. “Probably gutting some poor bastard’s dreams.”

Quinn grinned. “Our horror queen.”

“Fashionably late,” Sal murmured.

The door swung open.

Everyone turned to watch Olivia Hartley stroll in like she owned the place.

Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, black boots clicking against the floor, sunglasses still on despite the dying afternoon light. She was smiling, lazy, confident, like the cat who had eaten the canary and demanded dessert.

Her gaze swept the room, brushing over you, Sal, Matt and Quinn, landing squarely on Maya.

She smiled wider. “Good to see you again, Mason,” she purred, tugging her sunglasses off and tossing them onto the table.

Maya sat up a little straighter, boots dropping to the floor with a quiet thud. She offered a polite smile, the professional kind with no teeth, and inclined her head.

“Olivia,” she said. “Congrats again on signing.”

“Wouldn’t have happened without you,” Olivia said, breezing closer, her voice low and flirtatious, like it was just the two of them in the room. She perched in the chair at the head of the table, angling her body toward Maya like gravity itself demanded it.

Maya stayed still, composed.

“You know,” Olivia said, reaching out to flick a nonexistent piece of lint from Maya’s sleeve, “I always believe in rewarding good partners.”

Matt looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Sal was smirking openly now, elbowing Quinn, who just shook her head.

Maya smiled again and leaned back just out of reach. “I’m just here to make good movies,” she said smoothly.

Olivia tilted her head, studying her. “And have a little fun along the way?”

The tension twisted tighter.

Everyone could feel it, the line being pulled taut, the way Olivia was pushing, assuming that same flirtatious dynamic still existed now that the ink was dry. She had no idea. Not yet.

The door swung open again but this time you walked in. And the air in the room shifted once more. Black heels clicking against the floor, black silk hugging every perfect, devastating line of your body, red lipstick sharp as a blade, hair smooth and tucked behind one ear.

You didn’t look at Olivia, didn’t even see her. You peeled off your sunglasses slowly, lazily, like you had all the time in the world, and slid them into your clutch.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, voice warm and unbothered, like you hadn’t just made the entire room your stage. “Had a client meeting with Ari.”

You slid into the seat beside Maya, the one Olivia had been half-reaching for without realizing it, and leaned in casually, brushing a kiss against Maya’s cheek.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, soft and low, like you were the only two people in the world. “How’d your meeting with Pedro go?”

Maya practically melted, her smile wrecked and radiant, her hand finding your knee under the table instinctively.

“Good,” she replied fondly.

You settled back in your seat, crossing your legs, nails tapping lazily against the polished wood. Only then did you glance at Olivia.

Olivia’s face had gone tight, polite.

Because in that moment she understood that Maya wasn’t hers to charm, Maya had never been hers to win. She had been yours the whole time.

And now?

You weren’t hiding it anymore.

[goldfades]

all my tomorrows | JOE BURROW⁹ [001]

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | your wedding day - from start to (semi) finish. a night woven with love and laughter, where heartfelt speeches echo through the air. joe and y/n’s wedding glows with tenderness, from ja'marr’s playful tribute to y/n’s unshakable place in joe’s heart, to your best's teary words of lifelong friendship.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff, mentions of drinking, emotional, ummmm pretty much nothing else! just tooth-rotting fluff!!

MAY 23RD, 2021

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐔𝐙𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, painting the bridal suite in a soft, golden light. The air is alive with the hum of excitement, laughter bubbling over as your bridesmaids flit around the room. The scent of fresh coffee and the faint floral aroma from your bouquet mix with the sharp tang of hair spray.

Maisie, your maid of honor and partner-in-crime since middle school, perches on the edge of the vanity chair, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, ladies,” she announces, holding up a to-do list like it’s a sacred text. “We’ve got exactly three hours until we need to head down. Hair? Check. Makeup? In progress. Emotional stability?” She raises an eyebrow at you. “Questionable.”

“Excuse me,” you say, leaning back in your chair as one of the stylists curls another section of your hair. “I am perfectly stable.”

Maisie smirks. “Sure, sure. That’s why you’ve been bouncing your knee like a jackhammer since you sat down.”

You glance down at your leg, which is, indeed, in overdrive. With a sheepish laugh, you press a hand to your knee. “Okay, maybe a little nervous.”

“A little?” Olivia, one of your bridesmaids, arches a perfectly sculpted brow from her spot on the couch, where she’s applying a flawless coat of mascara. “Babe, you’re marrying Joe freaking Burrow. Nerves are allowed.”

“Not just allowed,” adds Camila, another bridesmaid, who’s currently rifling through a box of pastries. “Expected. Honestly, if you weren’t nervous, I’d be concerned.” She holds up a croissant. “Carb therapy?”

You laugh, waving her off. “Later. If I eat now, I’ll definitely spill it on the dress.”

From her seat by the window, Elena, your quiet but fiercely loyal bridesmaid, sips her coffee and smiles. “You’ll be stunning, no matter what.”

“Exactly,” Maisie says, setting her phone down and standing up with a dramatic flourish. “Now, let’s get down to business. Who’s ready for some champagne?”

There’s a collective cheer as Maisie grabs a bottle from the mini fridge and expertly pops the cork, sending a small shower of bubbly onto the floor.

“To Y/N,” Maisie says, raising her glass high. “The calmest, coolest bride in history. May your day be perfect, your vows unforgettable, and your dance moves questionable.”

You all burst into laughter as you clink glasses, the bubbles fizzing against your lips. It’s a moment of pure joy, a snapshot of the love and friendship that’s carried you to this day.

As you sip your champagne, Maisie sets her glass down and turns to the garment bag hanging on the door. “Alright, who’s ready to see the dress one more time before the big reveal?”

Your heart skips a beat as you watch her carefully unzip the bag, revealing the gown that feels like a dream. The room falls silent, the air thick with awe as your bridesmaids crowd around.

“Oh my God,” Olivia breathes. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember.”

“You’re going to take his breath away,” Elena whispers, her eyes shimmering.

Camila sniffs dramatically, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

Maisie steps back, hands on her hips, beaming with pride. “This is it, Y/N. Your moment.”

You stand, the nerves from earlier settling into a warm, steady excitement. Maisie reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “How are you feeling?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze flickering to the gown, then to the faces of your best friends. “Like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

Maisie grins. “Damn right you are.”

The rest of the morning unfolds in a flurry of final touches, shared memories, and stolen glances at the clock. With every passing minute, the reality sinks in deeper. In just a few hours, you’ll walk down the aisle, and at the end of it, Joe will be waiting.

The laughter and chatter around you start to blur, their voices melding into a soft, comforting hum. You watch the light bounce off the champagne flutes, the delicate lace of your wedding dress shimmering under the glow of the morning sun. Everything feels surreal, like you’re walking through a dream that somehow came to life.

This is really happening.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the memories wash over you. The first time you saw Joe in that high school hallway, head buried in a playbook, hair a little too long, and a smile that made your heart stumble. The late-night phone calls during college, when the distance felt unbearable but his voice kept you tethered. The endless games, the victories and losses, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you against the world.

You think about LSU, that electric night when the stadium roared and confetti rained down like the universe was celebrating your love. Joe, on one knee, looking at you like you were the only person who mattered in the sea of screaming fans. And now, here you are, hours away from saying “I do” to the person who has been your anchor, your partner, your everything.

A soft voice breaks through your reverie. “You feeling it?”

You blink, returning to the present. The makeup artist, a kind-eyed woman named Grace, is watching you with a gentle smile, her brush paused mid-air.

You nod, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah, I’m feeling it.”

And then, without warning, the weight of it all hits you. The love, the journey, the sheer magnitude of this moment—it’s overwhelming in the best way. Your eyes start to sting, the tears welling up faster than you can stop them.

Grace’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh no, no, no,” she says quickly, setting down her brush and grabbing a tissue. “Not the tears, honey, not yet! Think dry thoughts! Puppies! Deserts! That scene in The Lion King where Mufasa—wait, no, not that.”

Maisie, ever the quick thinker, swoops in with a hand fan and starts fanning your face like her life depends on it. “Deep breaths, Y/N. In through your nose, out through your mouth. We are not letting you walk down the aisle with streaky mascara.”

Camila appears on your other side, holding a tiny bottle of setting spray like it’s a weapon. “I’ve got reinforcements. Don’t worry, we’ll seal it in if we have to.”

You laugh through the tears, shaking your head as you try to compose yourself. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice wobbly. “It’s just… it’s a lot, you know? This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and it’s actually happening.”

Grace dabs at the corners of your eyes with the tissue, her touch light and practiced. “Of course, it’s a lot,” she says, her tone soft and understanding. “But that’s a good thing. It means you’re present. You’re feeling every bit of this moment, and that’s exactly how it should be.”

Maisie leans in, her fan still going strong. “And we’ll make sure you feel it after the ceremony too. Right now, though, we’re keeping that face flawless, okay?”

You nod, a watery smile spreading across your face. “Okay.”

Grace picks up her brush again, giving you a reassuring wink. “Alright, let’s get back to it. By the time I’m done, you’ll be glowing like the goddess you are.”

As the room falls back into its rhythm, you take another deep breath, letting the love and support of your friends steady you. This is it—the beginning of forever. And you’re ready.

┈┈┈

The low rumble of laughter echoes off the walls of the groom’s suite, mixing with the faint scent of cologne and the crisp aroma of freshly pressed suits. Joe adjusts the cufflinks on his shirt, his fingers moving with the kind of calm precision he usually reserves for pre-game rituals. Except today, he’s not suiting up for a game—he’s preparing for the most important moment of his life.

“You good, man?” Ja’Marr Chase, his best man and long-time teammate, asks from across the room. He’s lounging on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tie is still untied around his neck, but Ja’Marr never rushes.

Joe glances at him in the mirror, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Yeah, I’m good.” He adjusts his collar, taking a step back to inspect himself. The suit fits like a glove—sharp, tailored to perfection—but it’s not the suit he cares about. It’s the moment waiting for him just a few hours away.

“Good?” Ja’Marr raises an eyebrow, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re about to marry the love of your life, bro. You better be more than good.”

Joe laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’m better than good. Happy now?”

Ja’Marr grins, setting his glass down and standing up. “That’s what I like to hear.” He walks over, clapping a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You nervous at all?”

Joe considers the question for a moment. “A little,” he admits. “But it’s a good kind of nervous. Like, the kind you get before a big game. You know what you’re doing, but it still hits you that it’s a huge deal.”

“Except this time,” Ja’Marr says, leaning against the dresser, “you’re not just playing for a win. You’re locking down your forever.”

Joe chuckles. “Exactly.”

The door swings open, and a few more of the guys—Sam, Tee, and Tyler—stroll in, already dressed and ready.

“Look at you,” Tee says, whistling as he takes in Joe’s suit. “Sharp as hell. Y/N’s gonna lose it when she sees you.”

Joe smirks. “That’s the plan.”

Sam drops into one of the chairs, pulling out his phone. “Alright, we’ve got time before we head down. Who’s up for a quick game of Madden?”

Tyler shakes his head, laughing. “You’re seriously trying to play video games right now?”

“Hey, it’s tradition,” Sam says with a shrug. “Pre-game warm-up, right?”

Ja’Marr rolls his eyes but grabs a controller anyway. “Fine. One game. But I’m playing as the Bengals, and if I win, Joe owes me a drink later.”

Joe leans against the wall, watching as they set up the game. It’s the kind of easy, familiar energy that’s followed them through years of locker rooms, road trips, and big games. And as much as he appreciates the distraction, his mind keeps drifting back to you.

He pictures you in your dress, walking down the aisle, the way your smile will light up the entire room. The thought sends a wave of anticipation and love crashing over him, so powerful it’s almost dizzying.

“You zoning out over there?” Ja’Marr asks, glancing over from the couch.

Joe snaps back to the present, his grin widening. “Just thinking about her.”

Ja’Marr nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, man. She’s something else.”

The game kicks off, and the room fills with shouts and laughter as the guys trash-talk and celebrate their plays. But through it all, Joe stays grounded in the reality that today, his life changes forever.

“Hey,” Ja’Marr says after scoring a touchdown, “just remember—when you’re standing up there, take a second to really take it all in. Don’t rush through it. That’s a moment you’ll wanna remember for the rest of your life.”

Joe meets his best friend’s gaze and nods. “I will.”

Because as much as this day is about promises and celebrations, it’s also about the journey that brought them here. And Joe’s ready to embrace every second of it.

┈┈┈

The sunlight streams gently through the wide windows of the bridal suite, filtering through gauzy curtains and casting a golden glow across the room. The air hums with quiet anticipation, the kind that wraps itself around every detail—the rustle of satin, the soft click of heels against polished wood, the faint notes of the string quartet warming up outside.

You stand before a full-length mirror, the lace and tulle of your wedding dress spilling elegantly around you. Every bead and stitch feels like a promise, every delicate detail a testament to the day you’ve dreamed about for so long.

Grace, the makeup artist, gives your hair one last fluff before stepping back. “Alright,” she says, her voice warm and steady. “You’re officially ready.”

You barely hear her. Your eyes are locked on your reflection, taking in the way the dress hugs and flows, the way the soft waves in your hair frame your face. It’s not just the look—it’s the weight of the moment that catches in your chest.

Maisie appears at your side, her own dress swishing as she moves. “You look perfect,” she says, her voice hushed, like speaking too loudly might break the spell.

You nod slowly, your hands brushing against the smooth fabric of your gown. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whisper.

Maisie grins. “Believe it, babe. You’re about to marry Joe freaking Burrow.”

The mention of his name sends a flutter of excitement through you. You can almost picture him now—standing somewhere in the men’s suite, probably adjusting his tie for the hundredth time or cracking a joke with Ja’Marr.

As if reading your thoughts, Maisie nudges you playfully. “Think he’s as nervous as you are?”

You laugh softly. “If he is, he’s hiding it better.”

A knock at the door pulls your attention, and your mom steps in, her eyes already glistening with tears. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice catching. “You look… oh, my goodness.”

Her reaction sends another wave of emotion crashing over you, and you have to blink back tears to keep your makeup intact. She walks over, taking your hands in hers, her smile warm and full of love. “You’re radiant.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

Grace, ever vigilant, gives a soft warning from the corner. “No tears yet, ladies. We’re too close to mess up perfection.”

The room dissolves into light laughter, the tension easing just a bit. Your bridesmaids begin gathering their bouquets, Maisie organizing everyone with the efficiency of a seasoned event planner.

Meanwhile, across the country club, Joe is standing in front of another mirror, adjusting his tie for what must be the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Man, you’ve got it,” Ja’Marr says from behind him, lounging in a chair with a relaxed grin. “Your tie’s fine. You’re fine. Stop messing with it before you undo all of Grace’s hard work.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh but lets his hands fall to his sides. He steps back, taking in the full picture—charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, tie perfectly aligned. It’s a look he’s worn before, but today it feels different. He looks like a groom. He looks like someone about to marry the love of his life.

Ja’Marr gets up, straightening his own jacket before patting Joe on the back. “You ready for this?”

Joe meets his best friend’s eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, the usual swagger softens. “Yeah,” he says, his voice steady. “I’ve been ready.”

The groomsmen begin to gather, straightening lapels and exchanging last-minute words of encouragement. There’s a knock at the door, and the wedding coordinator peeks in. “Five minutes, gentlemen.”

Joe nods, the weight of the moment settling in. He takes a deep breath, letting it anchor him. Then, with one last glance in the mirror, he turns to Ja’Marr. “Let’s do this.”

Back in the bridal suite, the final touches are being made. Maisie adjusts the hem of your dress, while Camila ensures your veil is perfectly in place. The air buzzes with quiet excitement, but as the minutes tick down, a hush falls over the room.

Your heart pounds as the wedding coordinator steps in, her clipboard clutched to her chest. “It’s time,” she says with a smile.

Your bridesmaids file out first, their dresses swaying softly as they move down the hall. Maisie lingers for a moment, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you out there,” she says, her eyes shining.

Finally, it’s just you and your dad. He steps forward, offering his arm with a look that says everything he doesn’t need to.

“Ready?” he asks softly.

You nod, your heart full. “Ready.”

Together, you step into the hallway, the sound of the string quartet growing louder with each step. The doors to the ceremony space are just ahead, and beyond them—Joe.

As you pause at the threshold, waiting for the doors to open, you take a deep breath, grounding yourself in the moment. This is it. The beginning of forever.

The double doors swing open with a soft creak, revealing the grand expanse of the ceremony space. The world narrows, and for a moment, all you hear is the soft hum of the string quartet, transitioning seamlessly into Canon in D. The light spills in golden rays through the tall windows, catching on the polished wood of the pews, the delicate floral arrangements lining the aisle, and the beaming faces of friends and family.

But none of that matters, not really. Your eyes find him instantly.

Joe stands at the end of the aisle, a picture of calm and quiet strength in his charcoal gray suit. His hands are clasped in front of him, but even from here, you can see his fingers fidgeting just slightly. His lips are curved in a soft smile, but his eyes—those clear blue eyes—are what hold you. They shine with an emotion so raw, so overwhelming, that it catches in your throat.

And then, just as you take your first step forward, you see it. His smile falters for a second, his jaw tightens, and he blinks rapidly, a single tear slipping free and tracing a line down his cheek. You feel your own breath hitch, your chest tight with a swell of love so profound it feels like it could lift you off the ground.

Your father tightens his hold on your arm, his silent support grounding you. Together, you walk down the aisle, each step measured and deliberate, as if savoring every second leading up to this moment. The murmurs of the crowd fade, the music becomes a soft, distant melody, and it’s just you and Joe, two halves of a whole, moving closer with every heartbeat.

When you finally reach him, your father gently lifts your veil, pressing a kiss to your temple. He steps back, his eyes glassy, and places your hand in Joe’s. The warmth of Joe’s touch sends a comforting rush through you, anchoring you in the present.

The officiant begins, his voice calm and steady, weaving words of love and commitment. But it’s hard to focus on anything beyond Joe—his steady breathing, the way his thumb brushes over the back of your hand, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

Then, it’s time for the vows.

Joe goes first. He clears his throat, his fingers tightening around yours as he begins.

“I was sixteen when I first knew I wanted to spend my life with you. You were standing in the bleachers, cheering me on like you always do, and I remember thinking that nothing else mattered as long as I could keep seeing that smile.”

His voice catches slightly, and he pauses, taking a steadying breath. “You’ve been my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home. Through every victory and every loss, you’ve been there, steady and unwavering. Today, I promise to be that for you. I promise to love you unconditionally, to stand by your side in every challenge and every joy, to be your partner in all things. You’ve given me a life I never dreamed possible, and I will spend everyday making sure you know how deeply you are loved.”

You’re barely holding it together by the time he finishes. Your heart is a mess of emotions, tears pooling in your eyes, but you manage a small, watery smile.

It’s your turn. You squeeze Joe’s hand lightly, drawing strength from his steady presence as you begin.

“Joe, from the moment we met, you’ve been my safe place. You’ve seen me at my best and my worst, and through it all, you’ve loved me without hesitation. You’ve shown me what it means to be truly known and deeply loved.”

Your voice wavers, and you pause for a moment, blinking back tears. “You’ve given me so much—your love, your dreams, your heart—and today, I vow to give you all of me. I promise to stand by your side through every adventure, every challenge, and every quiet, ordinary day. I promise to support your dreams, to cheer you on, to be your rock, your home, your everything. You are my greatest love, my greatest joy, and I can’t wait to build a life with you.”

The silence that follows is filled with the quiet rustle of tissues and soft sniffles from the crowd. Joe’s eyes glisten, and his grip on your hands tightens ever so slightly, as if to say I’m here, always.

The officiant smiles warmly. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Joe, you may kiss your bride.”

Time seems to slow as Joe steps closer, his hands coming up to gently frame your face. His touch is tender, reverent, as if he’s holding the most precious thing in the world. He leans in, and when his lips meet yours, it’s like the world tilts on its axis. The kiss is soft, unhurried, a perfect melding of love and promise, and the crowd erupts in cheers and applause around you.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, basking in the glow of a love that feels infinite.

“Hi, Mrs. Burrow,” Joe whispers, his voice filled with a mix of awe and joy.

You laugh softly, your heart full. “Hi, Mr. Burrow.”

As the applause swells around you, Joe flashes that signature grin—the one that’s a little mischievous, a little playful, and entirely him. Before you can register what’s happening, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back.

A collective cheer erupts from the crowd, and you let out a surprised laugh, your hands instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Joe!” you exclaim, your face flushing with joy and a hint of embarrassment. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying my bride into forever,” he says, his voice low and warm, eyes sparkling with pride and love. “Figured I’d start now.”

The guests eat it up, laughter and whoops echoing throughout the grand hall. Your bridesmaids are clapping and cheering, Maisie yelling, “That’s right, Joe! Set the standard high!” Jamarr, Joe’s best man, is laughing so hard he’s doubled over, while the rest of the groomsmen slap each other on the back.

Joe walks down the aisle, steady and sure, carrying you like you weigh nothing, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. The light from the chandeliers above casts a golden glow on the scene, making everything feel almost dreamlike.

You lean in close, your forehead brushing against his temple. “You know you’re setting a pretty high bar for the rest of the night,” you murmur, your lips curling into a soft smile.

He glances down at you, his grin widening. “Good. I want this day to be perfect, just like you.”

You feel your heart swell, your chest tight with emotion. How did you get so lucky? To have this man—this steadfast, loving, utterly wonderful man—as your partner for life feels almost too good to be true.

As you reach the end of the aisle, Joe gently sets you down, but not before placing a lingering kiss on your forehead. The two of you stand there for a moment, hand in hand, soaking in the love and energy radiating from your friends and family.

The officiant steps forward, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to present to you, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Burrow!”

The applause erupts once more, and this time it feels like the sound of a thousand well-wishes, all wrapped up in joy and celebration. You and Joe raise your joined hands in triumph, sharing a laugh as you begin your walk—together—toward the next chapter of your lives.

But Joe, ever the showman, has one more trick up his sleeve. Just before you step out of the grand hall, he pauses, turns to face the crowd, and dips you dramatically, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your lips. The guests erupt in laughter and cheers, and you can’t help but laugh with them.

“Always gotta go out with a bang,” he whispers as he pulls you upright again.

“You’re impossible,” you reply, but your eyes are shining with love.

“And you’re mine,” he says simply, guiding you toward the door, where a new adventure awaits.

┈┈┈

The reception hall is bathed in a soft, romantic glow, the kind that makes everything feel like a scene out of a dream. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling, casting a warm shimmer over the room, while candles flicker on every table, their golden light reflected in the delicate crystal glasses and polished silverware. The gentle hum of laughter and conversation fills the air, mingling with the soft clinking of glasses.

But now, the room falls quiet. The band begins to play the familiar, soulful opening chords of Tennessee Whiskey, and a hush settles over the crowd. All eyes are on you and Joe as he takes your hand, his touch warm and steady. The two of you step onto the dance floor, the world around you fading away until it’s just the two of you and the music.

Joe pulls you close, his hand settling at the small of your back, while your free hand rests lightly on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your fingertips, a grounding rhythm that anchors you in the moment. He leans in, his forehead brushing against yours, and you can feel the soft, slow exhale of his breath.

The lyrics begin, the singer’s rich, velvety voice filling the room.

“Used to spend my nights out in a barroom…”

Joe’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “This is it,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Our first dance as husband and wife.”

You smile, your throat tight with emotion. “I can’t believe we’re here,” you reply softly. “It feels like a dream.”

He tilts his head slightly, his lips quirking into that familiar, heart-melting grin. “If it is, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

The two of you begin to sway, the movement slow and intimate, as if the music is a secret meant only for you. His hand tightens slightly at your back, pulling you just a bit closer, and you let yourself melt into him, your head resting against his chest. The deep timbre of his voice as he hums along to the song vibrates through you, a comforting resonance that feels like home.

“But when you poured out your heart, I didn’t waste it…”

The lyrics seem to speak directly to your souls, each word a reflection of the journey that’s brought you to this moment. From high school hallways and Friday night lights to the bright glare of championship stadiums, every step has been a testament to the love you share, a love that’s only grown stronger with time.

As the chorus swells, you lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. Joe’s gaze is soft but intense, filled with an unspoken promise, a silent declaration of just how much you mean to him. His hand moves from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear that’s escaped down your cheek.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice full of tenderness.

You nod, your smile trembling. “I’m just… so happy.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Me too,” he murmurs, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulls back. “More than I can ever say.”

Around you, the room fades into a blur of soft light and smiling faces, but you barely notice. You’re lost in the moment, in the feel of his arms around you, in the weight of everything this dance represents. Every twirl, every step feels like a promise: of love, of partnership, of a future filled with shared dreams and unwavering support.

“You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey…”

The song reaches its final chorus, the music swelling with a quiet power that mirrors the emotions building in your chest. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the melody wash over you, and when you open them, Joe is still watching you, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he says, his voice barely audible over the music but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat.

As the final notes of the song fade into the air, Joe twirls you gently one last time before pulling you back into his arms. The room erupts in applause, but it feels distant, like the sound of waves crashing far off on the shore. All you can focus on is him, the love in his eyes, and the way his arms feel like the safest place in the world.

For a moment, the two of you stand there, holding each other as the world moves around you, and you know, without a doubt, that this is just the beginning of a lifetime of dances, each one more beautiful than the last.

The first dance gives way to the gentle hum of conversation and the soft clinking of cutlery. Dinner is served: a beautifully plated meal that looks almost too good to eat. Almost. You and Joe laugh as he insists on stealing a bite from your plate, claiming, “What’s yours is mine, right?” You retaliate by snagging a forkful of his mashed potatoes, and soon the two of you are sharing more food than you expected, all while sneaking adoring glances at each other.

As the last plates are cleared and the sound of laughter echoes from every table, the evening’s next act begins. Joe’s best man, Ja’Marr, stands and taps his champagne glass, the sharp ting ting ting drawing everyone’s attention.

“Alright, alright, listen up!” Ja’Marr’s grin is wide, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he adjusts his tie. “First off, I want to say how honored I am to stand here as Joe’s best man. It’s a big job, but hey, someone’s gotta keep this guy in line, right?”

Laughter ripples through the room, and Joe shakes his head with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence.

Ja’Marr continues, his tone light but sincere. “Joe and I have been through a lot together. We’ve shared victories, defeats, endless practices, and even more late-night fast food runs than I care to admit. But what’s always stood out about Joe is his drive—not just on the field but in every part of his life. And that includes how he loves Y/N.”

He pauses, his expression softening as he looks at you. “Y/N, I gotta tell you, this guy…he’s been head over heels for you since day one. You’ve been his biggest cheerleader, his rock, and the love of his life. And if anyone ever doubted how much he loves you, well, they weren’t around for that time he turned down a post-game party just to FaceTime you for three hours.”

The crowd bursts into laughter, and you cover your face, laughing as Joe groans, muttering, “Thanks, Ja’Marr.”

“But seriously,” Ja’Marr adds, his tone shifting to something deeper, “what you two have is rare. It’s the kind of love that inspires everyone around you, and I’m lucky to witness it up close. Here’s to a lifetime of happiness, love, and, knowing Joe, a whole lot of competitive board games.”

He raises his glass. “To Joe and Y/N!”

“To Joe and Y/N!” the guests echo, glasses clinking and laughter bubbling up once again.

Next, Maisie rises, her expression a mix of excitement and nerves. She smooths down her dress and clears her throat, giving you a wink.

“Okay, I’m not great at public speaking, but for my best friend, I’ll give it a shot,” Maisie begins, her voice warm and steady. “Y/N and I have been friends since middle school, back when braces and awkward school dances were our biggest worries. From the moment we met, I knew she was someone special—kind, fiercely loyal, and with a laugh that could brighten anyone’s day.”

Maisie pauses, her eyes glimmering with fondness. “And then Joe came along. At first, I was skeptical—football star, all the confidence in the world. I thought, ‘Great, here comes the cliché.’” She smirks, and the guests laugh knowingly. “But then I saw the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the room. And it wasn’t long before I realized he wasn’t just the star quarterback. He was the guy who would drive hours just to surprise her, who’d send her good morning texts every single day, and who always made her laugh, even when she didn’t feel like smiling.”

Maisie’s voice catches slightly, and she takes a moment to compose herself. “Joe, you’ve made my best friend so incredibly happy, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. And Y/N…you’ve found the kind of love people write songs about, the kind that lasts a lifetime.”

She raises her glass, her smile radiant. “To Joe and Y/N, and to a love that’s as smooth as Tennessee whiskey.”

The room erupts into cheers and applause, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek. Joe squeezes your hand under the table, his thumb brushing against your skin in a silent gesture of love and reassurance.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[catiuskaa]

horny kitchen [not hell's this time].

SUMMARY: whenever you were home, he wasn’t. it wasn’t totally your fault if that had made you believe he was never home in the first place, but it sure had lead into an interesting meeting.

WC: 1.7k

CW: crack! felix and olivia as cupids (i love them), mentions of alcohol, mentions of the movie After: Ever Happy, slight Changlix showing up, drunken courage, nsfw! marking, dry humping.

REQUESTED! by annonie right here. i had fun, tysm, pookie!

[☆🔹🛋️🔹☆]

“Tell me you were kidding.”

You stared at Felix’s puzzled face, his hands on your shoulders, and Olivia passed her hands through her hair as she leaned against your room’s door, shutting it close.

“What— why would I lie?” You frowned, smiling in confussion. “I wasn’t kidding. We’ve just never really talked, and I only know one or two things about him.” You repeated, and watched as your friends both made the same exhasperated grin, and then shared a look that only them, brother and sister, were able to decipher.

“Your roomate, who’s basically famous in our college, who looks like— like that,” Olivia stated, stumbling on her words. “And you haven’t had a normal chat? Not even about the weather?”

You shrugged. “Not that I remember, no. He doesn’t look like he’s a fan of small talk.”

They had both stared at you with wide eyes when you opened the door and the figure of a tall man with short hair surprised you at the other side.

“Oh, right,” you had smiled, turning to introduce him to your friends. “He’s my roomate, Hyunjin. I texted you a while back to check if they could come over, remember?” You said softly at him, and he smiled, nodding.

“Right, yeah. Sorry that I can’t stay, I have someone waiting for me downstairs. It was nice to meet you.” He had greeted, as politely as he had smiled, and rushed to catch the elevator again.

And that had been it.

“God, he looks like a model.” Felix sighed as he took his jacket off, blinking slowly, as if trying to comprehend what he had seen. “He looks like he travels to Italy and France during fashion week. What the fuck, he looks like he knows when fashion week is.”

“He’s like a hundred times better than the last guy you dated,” Olivia chimed back, and you frowned at the mention of your ex. “Don’t look at me like that. Babe, tell me that at least you find him attractive.”

“Sure. He’s good looking.” Felix deadpanned at you, and you huffed. “Okay, fine! He’s really hot, yeah, I have eyes, you know?”

Olivia and Felix snickered, and you pouted, snickering too, grabbing a pillow from your bed and yeeting it at him.

“I didn’t come here to see you drool over Hyunjin, guys. It’s bad movie Sunday, and we have to watch After 4. I need this to finish soon.” You giggled cheekily.

“I’ll go get the shots!” Olivia smiled with enthusiasm as she went to grab three shot glasses and a bottle of cheap wine you kept.

“I thought we were gonna watch Twilight?” You saw Felix smile, taking his shoes of as he sat on the bed.

He rolled his eyes in amusment, faking pettiness while you turned on the computer and looked for the movie.

“Liv likes the saga, we can’t.” You chuckled. “Maybe she starts crying when Cedric Diggory starts pouring glitter over his face or something.”

“Have I heard disrespect against Robbert Pattinson?!” She yelled from the kitchen, and you two cackled loudly.

You settled your laptop on your desk and used your chair as a table to keep the glasses and wine on.

“Shot rules?” Olivia pondered, taking her shoes off and getting comfortable, much like Felix, who was stealing all the pillows and cushions and settling them behind his back.

“Seungmin said that a shot for every red flag was fine.” You shrugged.

“Seungmin watched After?” Olivia wondered in slight shock.

“Of course, he loves to complain about anything.” You mocked slyly. “But you guys aren’t driving back, right?”

Felix handled the movie blanket, hiding everything except his eyes and his nose under it.

“Bin has to drive this way to get home from the studio. He said he could take us.”

You smiled.

“Let’s get this over with,” Olivia chimed with a snicker.

[☆🔹🛋️🔹☆]

Tipsy could be an understatement. That, you had to admit. But only to yourself, because to your drunk mind, getting to that level of drunkness —just because of the walking red flag the love interest in the movie was— seemed a little lame on your side.

“‘m ok, livvie,” you smiled at Olivia and her skeptical look. “I won’t even drive.”

Changbin huffed in amusement, passing one of Felix’s arms over his shoulders as the very much freckled very much drunk man started pouting his lips.

“i wan’ kis, binn…” he blabbered messily.

“Why did we do a drinking game,” his sister mumbled, rubbing her eyes, clearly showing much more control on downing wine shots.

“Harvey burned his mom’s house! I mean, we clearly had to drink twice because of that.” Felix said in a hiccup, then clung back to Changbin.

You messily bid goodbye to the Lee brothers and the poor designated driver that carried Felix with Lix’s arm over his shoulder, closed the door and waddled back to your room.

The main issue movies like After had —aside from its preposterous attempt at trying to take itself seriously— was the copious amount of long and dull sex scenes.

Well. They seemed “dull” when you were sober.

But the thought of them brought naughty ideas to your just-a-bit-willy-nilly-tipsy body.

As if someone had been there staring at you, sitting in a dim-lit corner of your room, not bothering if it was late at night or if your door was wide open, your hands trailed down to the zip of your jeans, and you bit your lip, drunkily teasing yourself, lowering the fabric slowly down your hips, and letting it plop down on the floor with a soft thud.

The idea had been to take a step back and kick the clothing away, but you accidentally hit one of your bed’s legs, and cursed loudly, half because of the weirded out drunkness who had forgot that was there in the first place, but you shook it off, not actually in pain.

You shook your head, and continued with the frenzy, enticingly tickling your sides when reaching for your shirt and slowly took it off, letting it down next to your pants, as if leaving a happy trail that headed to your closet, one you opened and took an oversized shirt you usually wore to bed.

But sleeping with a bra on was not the smartest move. The clip started stining and the tag on its side started itching, so with a quick snap and a perky throw, you giggled, still a bit drunk, but starting to turn sober enough to start craving water.

You passed your oversized shirt over your head, turning to face your door when the long fabric covered your body.

Covered from a surprised and flustered pair of dark brown eyes, iris so dark that his pupils, blown out and enticing, almost devoured it whole.

“Hyun…jin?”

His hair was the messiest you had ever seen from him, dressed in his pj’s, some old blue squared-pattered pants that he got gifted a couple of Christmas ago. Solely the pants.

The waistband of his underwear, brand name staring at you like a deer in headlights. And even so, it wasn’t as intense as how that teasing little mole on his tummy.

Mmh. You wanted to kiss it.

“Ah… I uh…” he mumbled, messily so, enough for you to notice.

“Oh. Y’re drunk too.”

He smiled wryly, nodding.

It was a bit blank, how you two ended up in the kitchen. Your brain fuzzy, enjoying the alcohol that lingered in your system. Dazed, you feel two warm hands on your waist, and how they turn you around and sit you on the counter.

“Y’know?” Hyunjin smirks, and you notice you could almost taste the drinks he had taken from how close he was. “It’s s’weird how we never… uh… talk, mmh.”

Your breath hitches, his hands not leaving your waist, stroking and teasingly caressing underneath your shirt, that had ridden up from when you sat.

“Talk?” You mumble giddily.

“Yeah. It’s stupid. How can I live with someone so hot and barely say good morning?”

The way he states the sentence, as if it was something as factual and axiomatical as one plus one, baffles you almost as fast as the speed your cheeks turn red.

He snickers, watching you turn to putty in his hands. “I heard moans when I arrived.” The stupid movie. “For a moment, I thought it was you and it made me wild.”

Hyunjin leans his forehead against yours, his lips barely an inch away from temptation. You.

Cheekily, he moves even closer to the counter, until he’s slotted between your legs. He slides you over the counter, pressing you against him.

“Hyune…”

It’s a mumble, its slurred, and he drinks it up like he’s been thirsty for days. Neither of you are too sure of what’s happening, but it’s easy to say neither of you care enough about that now when his lips find yours.

Like he said, wild. You can’t be sure if it’s the moonlight that hits him from the kitchen’s window of the alcohol that gives him such freedom to kiss you in a way that, for a second, you feel like he’s going to eat you alive.

But he’s got it clear. He needs you, he’s been waiting for the moment you two would finally speak like human beings and stop behaving like robots who share comparments, barely addressing the other. He’s sick and tired of it, tired of waiting, and sick, because he’s been craving you for what seems like weeks, even months, and Hyunjin knows he can’t hold back any longer.

You’re both drunk, and maybe you shouldn’t, but how could he stop when you drop from the counter and his thigh fits perfectly between your legs? How could he stop, when he wants nothing but to tore your shirt to shreds and mark as much skin as he can see? How could he stop, when he’s been waiting for so long to let go?

“A-ah, Hyun…”

And he’s gone. One little whimper from you, and he knows that one thing’s for sure.

He’s not stopping until you come for him for the night.

Besides. There’s plenty other nights to keep having more fun.

[☆🔹🛋️🔹☆]

~kats, who in reality should be tiding up her room, but will most definetely keep reading the pjo pdf she found.

catiuskaa, september 2024

PERMANENT TAGLIST! @stayconnecteed @lyramundana

[mywritersmind]

CAT PARENTS - LN4

pt.3

summary : Part three!! Surprise surprise, Lando is in disbelief when Olivia shows up at his race! A weekend in Monaco is all it takes for the two to go from friends to blind idiots that are crushing on each other

OG SUMMARY (A kitten is all it takes to get two strangers in the same bed for the night. Lando likes how she doesn’t know him, Olivia likes the cat that he’s trying to take from her.)

listen up : at this point i’m writing a whole story so more parts will be coming!

word count : 2244

“You’re freaking out. Why?” Max asks me as I enter the Paddock.

My life has been crazy over the past three weeks. I’ve texted and called Lando non stop, Have interacted with all his friends, and am now some sort of F1 fan??

This all landed me right into his world, Max invited me. Not Lando. That’s why I'm freaking out because I'm surprising Lando and I don’t even know if he likes me but I really like him and I miss him even though we’ve literally met once.

“Surprises are nerve-wracking!” I frown at Max as he leads me through the crowds.

“Don’t worry! He will be excited. Trust me.” The way he says those last two words makes me feel more confident. I don’t know how much guys tell their friends about their relationship but I tell my girls everything. I’m hoping it’s close to the same.

I told Max I needed to wait until after the race, I don’t know what kind of preparation he does before and I don’t want to mess anything up.

Max hands me a glass of champagne once we’re in hospitality, “Breathe. Race is in five minutes.” He points down to the garages, “There’s your boy.” my heart beats faster when I see him. ‘Seeing him’ is an interesting phrase because I can only really see his helmet since he’s inside the car.

I relax a bit when Landos teammate's girlfriend joins us. Her name is Lily and even though she’s quiet, she’s incredibly funny and good at making me feel welcome.

Max and Lily help me understand a bit when a red flag happens, some drivers get lapped, the whole dirty air thing.

But before I know it, Lando is crossing the finish line, first.

“Oh my god!” I slap my hand over my mouth as Max grins at me.

“Ready to go see your lover boy?”

⋆｡‧˚⋆

From where we left things, Lando and I had facetimed nearly every day, talking about anything and everything. Everytime I show Juan he looks like he’s about to cry and talks about how big she’s getting.

One night however, stuck with me the most.

His texts were stupid and silly. But I can’t help but wonder why I was the one his mind went to.

Now I'm fiddling with my rings and walking down to the driver's area. Max said he’d have time before a bunch of interviews so I could sneak in quickly.

I knock on his door and when he opens it, I can’t help but smile. His hair is wet with champagne, his curls falling into his face and his suit half unzipped.

His blank stare turns into a wide grin in an instant, “You’re here!” He yells.

I grin, “You’re like sherlock.”

He shakes his head and pulls me into a hug, “Sorry! I’m all gross right now.” He keeps his hands on my waist, “Where is Juna!?”

We talk for five minutes alone, he asks me a million questions and I congratulate him for the millionth time. “Come meet Oscar!” He grabs my hand, all giddy, and drags me to a hallway that’s taken up by three men.

Orange, Red, and Blue.

He introduces me to Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, and Max Verstappen. They all look far too interested in me for three rich and successful men.

“How’d you two meet?” Daniel asks, sipping on his water.

“He tried to steal my cat.” I say easily as Lando hits my arm playfully.

“I tried to help our cat!”

“Our?” Oscar raises a brow.

We tell them about Juna and our ridiculous night in. They’re all laughing at my joke about Lando being a great cat dad when another driver joins us.

“A female?” This one I know, Alex Albon is one of my favorites (especially because his girlfriend is iconic) When all the boys look at Lando the Williams driver laughs, “Woah- When did you get a girlfriend Lan?”

This makes Lando blush, “No she’s- Uh… This is Olivia!” He clarifies awkwardly as Alex looks thoroughly impressed that he embarrassed him before smiling at me and shaking my hand.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Lily is my saving grace tonight. Lando’s been busy all night, he keeps glancing at me from across the room and mouthing ‘i’m sorry’. But it’s honestly no worries because I’ve made a new best friend.

“Are you nervous?” She asks me, sipping on her cocktail in one of the drivers backyards.

I shrug, “A little? It’s weird- like I don’t know anyone but I know the whole world does.”

She laughs, nodding, “You’ll get used to it. Especially with Lando- not that you’re together or anything… but fame sort of follows.”

I hadn't even thought about that. I’ve seen the posts about him, the drama, and gossip that have been spread. I never realized that could be about me one day.

“I didn't mean to freak you out!” she says quickly.

“No! No, Don’t worry. I understand.” we fall into an easy conversation about work and how we’ve each ended up in our respective fields. Alex Albon interrupts us, placing his hand on Lily’s back and smiling.

“Lando is looking for you. Fair warning though… the boys are in interrogation mode.”

I should have listened to Alex’s warning more carefully because now I’m sat in a circle in front of a fire pit, being grilled.

“You seriously didn’t know Lando?” one asks.

“She’s american-”

“Actually her dad is a fan-” Lando tries to defend.

“Christ… of Alonso, not you.” someone laughs.

“Can we keep her?”

I laugh as Lando looks incredibly embarrassed, “She’s not a dog!”

“But I still like her!” It’s Carlos who’s arguing, “You know Alexandra would adore her- and we need someone to keep you in line.”

Charles nods along, “It’s true.”

“In line?” Lando scoffs, “I’m never out of line!”

Oscar raises a brow, “So we’re not gonna talk about that reporter you-”

“Okay!” Lando stops the conversation, “How about you lot have a normal conversation instead of interviewing Liv?”

Max Verstappen crosses his arms, looking pretty intimidating until his eyes light up, “Can I see your shared cat?” Now this is a topic I can talk about. I pull up photos of Juna and I yap about the silly things she’s done and clothes she’s ruined.

“So Lan… when are you getting her on Quadrant?” Max F smirks mischievously.

“She’s also not a guinea pig.” He says, leaning against my chair, “I’m so sorry.” He whispers to me.

“Don’t worry. It’s funny.”

“Can I ask you something, Olivia?” Max starts again and Lando immediately sits up.

“No.” he answers for me.

“What did you think about Lando’s drunk texting because let me tell you- I thought it was hilarious!” Lando’s best friend teases ruthlessly.

I’m trying not to laugh as Lando stands up, “I’m getting a drink!” When he walks past Max he pushes his head, messing up his hair.

I look at Max, “You’re torturing him.”

“He’s friends with you, He can handle it.” He just shrugs and while I try not to cling onto his words, I walk inside.

Lando’s back is turned to me, pouring some water.

I lean against the counter, “Looks like a fun way to celebrate a win.” I joke as he turns around quickly.

“I wanted to show you something after this- obeying the law and everything.” he shrugs. Take me somewhere? God he’s so mysterious yet it’s like I can see right through him.

I smile as he shyly looks down, “So the texts-”

“Lando, It’s fine.”

He shakes his head, his hand going to the back of his neck while his face bunches up, “No… I’m really sorry. I honestly had to delete them because I was so embarrassed. I never even drink that much!”

He’s rambling, his cheeks going pink when he notices I'm laughing, “Lan. It’s okay. Honestly it was funny.”

This seems to calm him, stepping closer and looking down at me, “I know that we’re not like best friends, or anything… but I did miss you.”

My heart skips a beat, meeting Lando’s icy eyes, “I…”

“Barbecue!” Daniel Riccardo screams as he enters the kitchen. We both spin around to see the man who slaps his arms back down to the side of his body, “Barbecue…?”

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Lando and I are spending three days together in Monaco. Wow. Okay. This is happening. This is crazy! What am I even thinking!? I can’t just crash at this guy's place all week! Not to mention he payed for my ticket which was super embarrassing!

Lando insists that it’s fine and that it’ll be great, “Lily and Alex will be here too! Everyone else who lives here as well but you don’t want to hang out with all my friends so I can show you around!” His smile is so bright that I just nod at his words. He’s holding Juna in his arms, he convinced me to fly out with her just because he missed her.

Cat dad.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“Fuck!” I watch Lando fall into the harbor, slapping my hands over my mouth, I let out a muffled scream, “Lando!”

His head pops up with some sort of seaweed on him, He coughs once, climbs out of the water, and laughs, “That’s a first.” Is all he says before pulling his soaking shirt off.

I eye him, “Christ, we’re in public.” He eyes me right back, squeezing the water out with his arms… okay! “Are you okay?” I try to stop laughing but he looks like a wet puppy.

“I’m great!” He frowns, “Just got PUSHED in!” I scoff, clutching my necklace.

“I did no such thing!”

What truly happened was we were messing around, a little tipsy on the night air and how laughably terrible our day has been.

We had gotten turned away from three restaurants, We paid off the paparazzi, I fell on a bike and fucked up my knee, Juna got out and we almost died for a second…

This all led to multiple inside jokes and a feeling of being tied together through ridiculous trauma. When I pretended to push Lando in the water, he actually tripped and fell!

“We’re a mess.” He laughs as he runs his hand through my hair, “Well- I’m a mess!” He looks down at himself.

“Can't argue with that.” his mouth pulls into a smirk, “I think it’s time to go home.”

Lando sighs dramatically, “I think it’s time for ice cream.” He takes my hand in his, his cool skin warming me. He just pulls me in the other direction, I walk with him but my mind is on our intertwined hands.

He brings me to a little gelato place, orders in french and jokes with the owner as if he’s here 24/7.

“I didn’t know you speak french.” I say as we sit outside of the shop, licking my strawberry gelato off the spoon.

He laughs a bit, “I don’t. Just ice cream orders and casual greetings.” I smile at him, he’s in his own hoodie that he let me borrow before we went out. He felt horrible taking it from me but he was literally shivering with his wet shirt on.

I hum along to the song being played by a little band at a bar nearby, Lando smiles at me like he knows something.

“What?” I ask, feeling self conscious now.

He just shuts his mouth, mumbling, “Nothing…”

⋆｡‧˚⋆

LANDO NORRIS

She’s beautiful.

Genuinely gorgeous.

I’ve never really felt like this before. I think women are pretty every day, but with Liv… She’s just so stunning that it hurts.

When I fell into the water, I was pissed, but then I got out and she was laughing. She’s got a good laugh, the kind you want to laugh with. So I did, and I haven’t taken my eyes off her since. The moonlight sparkles in her eyes as she looks at me, confused.

I want to kiss her so badly.

It would be perfect, we’re alone, the streets are quiet, that band is strumming a toon. But I can’t tell if she fancies me. She’s here and she’s happy but I’ve never been good at being friends with women.

I don’t want to ruin what we have right now. It’s early still and she has two more days here…

“Lando?” Her sweet voice makes me sit up straighter, “You look freezing.” Her hand slips to my face, her hands are warm and I see the alarm in her face when she feels my cold skin.

I let out a dry laugh, “I am.”

Her hand moves down my arm, to my hand, “Let’s go then. Juna is probably plotting her second escape.” She takes my hand as we stand, not meeting my eyes, and that right there, gives me the tiniest bit of hope.

[theartofcollapse]

Would you write something along the lines of Alex x female reader in which Alex is getting drinks with Olivia and they’re by the bar when reader, who’s obviously an adult but also clearly seems to be way younger than them, approaches them and flirts with Alex? 🤭

a/n: thank you for your request, i hope you enjoy it :) summary: read above pairing: Alex Cabot x female reader warnings: age gap word count: 1.5K

masterlist

Does Your Mother Know - Alex Cabot

The bar was lively but not overcrowded, filled with just the right level of buzz. Alex leaned against the counter, one long leg crossed over the other, the stem of her martini glass balanced between her fingers. Olivia sat next to her, laughing over some ridiculous precinct story. Alex responded with a dry, “And people wonder why I sometimes think about leaving law for good.”

Olivia smirked, swirling her whiskey. “Oh, don’t act like you’d survive a day without arguing with someone.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Fair point.” She took a sip, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room briefly. She was used to attention, the kind that came from years of exuding competence and carrying herself like she was untouchable. And tonight was no exception. She’d noticed the occasional glance from strangers, but she hadn’t paid much mind.

That was, until you approached.

You’d been lingering nearby, gathering your courage. Something about Alex made her stand out. She was poised, intelligent, and maybe just a little intimidating. She seemed untouchable in a way that only made you want to try. So, with a deep breath, you stepped up to the bar, positioning yourself just close enough to interrupt their conversation.

“Hi,” you said, your tone casual but with a deliberate edge of confidence. Both women turned to look at you. Olivia gave you a quick once-over and smirked, immediately sensing where this was going. Alex, on the other hand, arched her eyebrow, her expression a mix of a little curiosity and cool detachment.

“I just had to come over and say…” you began, your gaze firmly on Alex. “You have a way of making this entire room seem irrelevant.”

Alex’s lips quirked upward, but her tone was dry as she replied, “Well, that’s one way to open a conversation. Does that usually work?”

You smiled, unfazed. “I guess you’ll have to tell me. But I’d bet it’s working right now.”

Olivia snorted into her drink, clearly enjoying this. Alex glanced at her partner-in-crime, then back at you. Her eyes flickered over your face and then down, briefly taking in your outfit. It was subtle, but you could tell she was sizing you up.

“Does your mother know that you’re out? How old are you?” Alex asked suddenly, her voice sharp but playful.

You blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Old enough to know what ABBA is. Also to know what I want.”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “A clever little girl. But sadly, you’re obviously a lot younger than me.”

You shrugged. “And? You look amazing. Why would I care about a few years?”

“A few years?” Alex repeated, her tone heavy with sarcasm. “That’s generous. You were probably still in high school when I was cross-examining witnesses.”

“Which just means you have experience,” you shot back with a grin. “That’s a plus in my book.”

Olivia laughed outright at that, setting her drink down to avoid spilling it. “Oh, I like her,” she said, gesturing at you. “She’s got guts.”

Alex gave Olivia a sidelong look before returning her attention to you. “You realize I could probably name at least three Supreme Court cases off the top of my head that were decided before you were born.”

“And I’d let you,” you replied smoothly. “I love a woman who can teach me something.”

That caught Alex off guard, though she quickly masked it with a sip of her martini. “Flattery,” she said, setting her glass down, “is not going to work on me.”

“I’m not trying to flatter you,” you said, leaning in slightly. “I’m just being honest. You’re incredible. And maybe I’m younger, but that just means I’ve got better stamina.”

Olivia coughed into her drink, clearly fighting back laughter, while Alex stared at you, utterly deadpan. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a wry smile.

“Well,” Alex said dryly, “if nothing else, you’ve got confidence. Though I can’t tell if that’s admirable or just reckless.”

“Maybe it’s both,” you replied. “But I’d like to think it’s working.”

Alex gave you a long, assessing look, and for a moment, you thought she might actually dismiss you. But instead, she picked up her martini and took a measured sip before replying.

“I have to admit, you’re persistent. And bold. A little too bold for your age, I’d say.”

“Bold enough to get you to talk to me,” you countered with a grin.

She shook her head, the faintest trace of amusement in her expression. “I’m starting to think you might actually believe some of the things you’re saying.”

“I do,” you said simply. “And if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you another drink as an apology.”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “You think you can afford my taste?”

“Try me,” you replied, your grin widening.

Alex glanced at Olivia, who was now fully invested in the show. Olivia raised her glass in a mock toast. “Go on, Cabot. Give the kid a chance. She’s earning it.”

Alex sighed dramatically, though the glint in her eyes gave her away. She turned back to you, her voice dripping with mock resignation. “Fine. One drink. But don’t get any ideas.”

You grinned, feeling triumphant. “Don’t worry. I’ve already got plenty.”

Alex rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile as she returned to her drink, muttering, “I’m too old for this.”

And yet, she didn’t tell you to leave.

The martini glass sat between you and Alex like a silent referee, marking the unofficial boundary of her “just one drink” declaration. You’d been nothing but charming, sliding in a few clever comments. Alex, though, had remained her cool, razor-sharp self, responding with just enough sarcasm to keep you on your toes.

But beneath her polished exterior, Alex was intrigued. It wasn’t just your confidence - plenty of people tried their hand at flirting with her - it was the way you held your own, unshaken by her dry wit or the age gap that you’d practically made a running joke out of.

As you drained the last of your cocktail, you smiled at Alex. “Well, I did promise you just one drink,” you said, standing up and smoothing out your outfit. “And I’m nothing if not a woman of my word.”

Alex blinked, taken aback. “You’re leaving?”

You shrugged, your grin teasing. “You said one drink. I’m respecting your boundaries. Or were you hoping I’d ignore them?”

Alex opened her mouth, then closed it, her gaze flickering between you and your empty glass. She had no idea why the thought of you leaving suddenly felt irritating. Disappointing, even. She prided herself on being unflappable, but somehow, you’d managed to get under her skin in the span of twenty minutes.

“Wait,” Alex said, reaching out to gently grab your wrist before you could walk away. The touch was light but firm, and it stopped you in your tracks.

You turned back to her, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Yes?”

Her hand lingered for a moment before she released you, smoothing her palm over her blazer as if to regain her composure. “You don’t have to leave just yet,” she said, her tone even, though there was a hint of something softer in her voice.

You tilted your head, your lips curling into a smile. “Oh? I thought we were sticking to the ‘one drink’ rule. Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

Alex let out a low sigh, her expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Don’t push it.”

“But you are asking me to stay,” you pressed, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

 “I’m just saying,” Alex said smoothly, leaning back in her chair, “that it would be rude to let a perfectly good conversation end so abruptly.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, crossing your arms and giving her a pointed look. “Because you’re worried about being rude. Totally not because you’d miss me if I left.”

Alex’s lips twitched, and for the first time that night, you caught her off guard. She reached for her martini and took a long sip, stalling. When she finally set the glass down, she met your gaze with a pointed look of her own.

“You’re very… persistent,” she said slowly.

“And you like that,” you replied, your grin widening.

For a moment, she didn’t respond, just studied you with those piercing blue eyes of hers. Finally, she shook her head with a soft laugh. “Fine. Stay. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, too late for that,” you said, sliding back onto the stool next to her.

As the bartender approached, Alex gestured for another round, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. “Since you’re staying,” she said, her voice carrying that trademark sarcasm, “I hope you don’t plan to exhaust me with more terrible pickup lines.”

You leaned in slightly, your smile playful. “I guess you’ll just have to stick around to find out.”

And for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Alex found herself genuinely looking forward to the rest of the night.

[dixons-sunshine]

Was It The Boogeyman? | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: Soon upon your group’s arrival to Alexandria, a masked killer begun running loose. Having no idea who they could be, Rick started an investigation, one that lead you to realize that you could not always trust everyone, especially not people who seemed to be unsuspecting at first.

Genre: Halloween, Slasher themes.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, death, near-death, others I can’t think of right now.

Word count: 5.9k

A/N: For @ghostboneswrites2’s Halloween challenge! To be honest, I feel like this is not the best, and I feel like the plot is all over the place, but I hope you like it nonetheless!

A bloodcurdling scream rang through the air. Rushing towards the source of the chilling sound, you, Daryl and Rick came face to face with a woman named Sarah, who had rushed out of the pantry. The woman looked as pale as a ghost, her hands shaking as she clutched onto the notebook in her hands.

“They got her! The killer got Olivia!”

You pushed past the woman, and walked into the garage that doubled as both the pantry and the armoury. There, laying in a big puddle of her own crimson blood, was Olivia, the former caretaker of the weaponry in the armoury. Her glasses were shattered on the ground a few feet away from her body, and a chunk of her brunette hair laid next to the spectacles, drenched in the woman’s blood.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, taking a tentative step towards the body. However, before you could take another step, you were gently pulled back, the familiar cerulean eyes of your partner coming into view when you turned your head. “What’s wrong?” you inquired, your eyebrows furrowed together.

“We dun’ know how long she’s been dead,” he began, his eyes darting over to the lifeless corpse of the woman. “She can reanimate at any minute.”

That fact you knew. A lifeless corpse reanimating had been what had alerted you all to the murders that had been happening around the alleged ‘safe zone’ in the first place. Deanna’s husband, Reg, had been murdered in cold blood a few weeks prior, and his reanimated corpse had caused quite the uproar amongst the other inhabitants. Thankfully, there had been no casualties; that is, if you didn’t include the community’s leader’s broken heart.

Deanna Monroe had been absolutely crushed by the death of her husband. She had been the one to put him down after encountering his undead self, and your heart went out for the woman. She had been nothing but kind to your group since you all had set foot through the gates, and she didn’t deserve to suffer from such pain.

You were drawn from your thoughts by the sight of Daryl crouched over Olivia’s body, his knife disappearing into her skull, before being retracted once more. The metal of the deadly weapon sported a red colour as the crimson liquid dripped from the object down onto the floor below. However, the knife was soon cleaned off with Daryl’s trusty red rag, returning the weapon to its former state of cleanliness.

The sound of heavy footsteps walking into the garage got your attention. You turned around and saw Rick approach the part of the room that held the bloody, gruesome scene. Your leader’s blue eyes flickered between the corpse and the blood that surrounded it, before he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger.

“This is death number three,” he said, frustration lacing his tone of voice. “Three deaths in two weeks.”

The Grimes man’s words rung true. Olivia’s unfortunate demise chalked up the death toll since the murderer made their debut to ‘three’. Reg had been killed first. Then a few days later, Pete Anderson’s life had been taken as well, his body being found near the infirmary. And now Olivia had joined them in the afterlife, too.

The killer’s pattern made no sense to you whatsoever. What did Reg, Pete and Olivia have in common for them to be murdered? How were they connected? What had they done to deserve a fate so cruel? Well, you knew what Pete Anderson had done to deserve it, but Reg and Olivia? It did not make a lick of sense to you.

With a deep sigh, you trudged forward and crouched down next to Olivia’s lifeless body, taking Daryl’s place as he stood up. Scanning over her body, you could quickly determine the method that had been used to kill her; strangulation, and then an odd looking stab wound through her chest. She had not been stabbed with a regular knife. Of that much you were completely certain. However, you could not decipher the weapon that had been used to pierce through the woman’s chest.

You glanced up at the two men. “She was strangled. And stabbed. There’s not really any telling which one got the job done, but the killer made sure to be thorough. They didn’t want her to survive this.”

“Christ,” Daryl muttered, shaking his head. “This killer’s sure got quite the way’a makin’ a lastin’ impression.”

“I just wish they’d choose something else to do it,” you mused aloud, your lips tugging into a grimace when your fingers traced over the clear-as-day blueish purple bruises that clearly depicted a handprint around the woman’s neck. Then, you stood up, crossing your arms over your chest. “This shit’s just inhumane.”

With a weary sigh, Rick shook his head and turned around, making his way out of the garage. You and Daryl shared a look, before the both of you simultaneously followed behind your leader, needing to know his thoughts on the matter. He had been your leader since the early days at the quarry, and even though Deanna Monroe still claimed official leadership over the Alexandrian safe zone, Rick had essentially taken over, and you would not have it any other way.

“Rick?” the archer’s voice rung out once the two of you had caught up with the Grimes man, effectively stopping him in his tracks. “What now?”

Another sigh left Rick’s mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows furrowed together as he gathered his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his blue eyes flitting between you and Daryl.

“No luck on the investigation?” you questioned him.

Shortly after the death of Reg, and then Pete, Rick had implemented an investigation, one which only he and Michonne were a part of, to avoid drawing any suspicions towards what they were doing. More people being let in on the investigation could potentially spill the secret as to who exactly was actively looking for the murderer, therefore the investigators would be the murderer’s next targets, and nobody wanted that. The murderer certainly knew that people were looking for them, but they did not know who.

Rick shook his head in acknowledgement to your words. “Nothin’. This killer’s smart. I haven’t found anythin’,” he admitted without hesitation. “Michonne and I have been turnin’ this place upside down lookin’ for clues, but it’s like this killer doesn’t even exist afterwards. It’s like they just vanish into thin air.”

Taking Rick’s admission into consideration, Daryl slowly nodded. “Ya think it could be someone from the outside? Someone who could be sneakin’ in to do this?”

“It’s a possibility,” Rick agreed, “but probably unlikely. We have people keepin’ watch all hours of the day. It doesn’t seem likely that someone would manage to sneak in.”

“So basically, we’re still nowhere near finding out who the murderer is,” you concluded, a heavy sigh leaving your body. “Three casualties and still nothing. Not even a meaningless clue that could lead us in the right direction.”

Daryl placed a hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing against your clothed skin soothingly. He knew how stressed you were, and for good reason. Who’s to say that the murderer’s next victim wasn’t someone you cared for? Who’s to say the murderer’s next victim was not you? The archer did not even want to consider that last possibility.

Rick sent you a look of sympathy, understanding your frustrations towards the entire ordeal. However, he did not know how to ease your worries when he was unable to quench his own worries. You had every right to worry about this murderer. He certainly did not blame you in the slightest.

Suddenly, realization dawned on Rick, and he cleared his throat. “Actually, we did find somethin’,” he began, effectively recapturing both yours and Daryl’s attention. “There was a witness in Pete’s murder. They said that they saw someone walk away, and that the person was wearin’ a mask.”

“Well, that’s just great,” you voiced with a heavy sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, this killer s’like some sort’a Boogeyman or somethin’?” Daryl inquired with a scoff. The whole situation had been weighing heavily on the archer’s shoulders since the first body had dropped a few weeks prior. It was only a matter of time until the unknown killer attacked once more, maybe even taking the life of somebody he truly cared for. He needed to find this vicious murderer, and fast.

“I mean, technically speaking, the killer’s kinda more like Ghostface,” you corrected him, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Ghostface?” Daryl echoed in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing. “What’s that?”

Your eyes flitted over to your partner. “Those killers from the Scream franchise?” When recognition did not dawn on the archer, you furthered your explanation. “You know, the movies with that terrifying white ghost-like mask? The Ghostface mask? The mask that the two killers wear in all the movies?” A few beats of silence passed. Sensing that nobody in the small group knew what you were talking about, you shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. Boogeyman is as good of a code name as any.”

Rick cleared his throat, diverting the attention back to the more important matter at hand. “So, this Boogeyman, they clearly only strike once they’re absolutely sure nobody else is around. Until we can come up with a concrete way to catch them once and for all, I think it’s best if nobody is alone. Perhaps groupin’ people together in houses could help.”

“Ain’t too sure folks ‘round here are gon’ take too kindly to that idea,” Daryl voiced, his eyes flickering between you and Rick.

Rick shrugged and looked at his found brother. “If they wanna stay safe, they’re gonna have to go with it, whether they like it or not.”

“You want me to ask Deanna to call a meeting so we can spread the word?” you asked, your eyes locking with those of your leader.

Rick shook his head. “No. Deanna’s not in the best mindset at the moment. She can’t make important calls like this right now. I’ll call it. In the meantime, you and Daryl clean up the body. No need to have people causin’ an uproar.”

“What do we tell people when they come lookin’ for her?” Daryl questioned gruffly.

Rick hesitated for a moment. “We don’t have anythin’ to hide. Tell them the truth.”

With that, Rick turned around and left, leaving you and Daryl alone in front of the garage. You exchanged a look with your partner, your eyes conveying more about how you felt than words could in that moment. However, you pushed your emotions aside for the time being. You had a job to do.

With a sigh, you turned around and stalked into the pantry, your sense of smell instantly being overpowered by the overwhelming stench of death that lingered in the air. You had to stop and close your eyes momentarily, both in an attempt to gather your thoughts and to not accidentally vomit at the gruesome sight in front of you. I’ve seen worse, you attempted to remind yourself. However, that did not seem to help at all.

The feeling of someone’s hand on your shoulder snapped you from your trance. Opening your eyes, you looked over your shoulder and locked eyes with your partner. He sent you a small, albeit strained smile, and you had to commend him for his efforts to calm you down.

“Ya dun’ gotta do this,” Daryl began, his tone of voice surprisingly soft and gentle. “I can handle it. Ya can go home.”

Almost instantly, you shook your head, before turning your head back to peer at Olivia’s lifeless corpse. “No, it’s okay. I wanna help.” You sighed and placed one of your hands over his larger one that still remained firmly on your shoulder. “I just wish we didn’t have to do this at all.”

Daryl leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head. “I know,” he murmured into your hair. “It sucks, that’s for damn sure, but it won’t last forever. We’ll find the bastard that did this and take care’a ‘em. I promise ya that.”

You could not help the small smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. “Wow. That was a surprisingly positive outlook for a ‘glass half empty’ kinda person. Being the optimist is usually my approach. Who are you and what did you do to the Daryl Dixon I know and love?”

Daryl scoffed and rolled his eyes, but made no effort to move away just yet. “Yeah, yeah. Can’t always be the pessimist, can I? M’one negative outlook on somethin’ away from turnin’ into a professional grump.” When your giggle reached his ears, he smiled to himself. “Ya feel better?”

You turned around and looked at him. “About all of this?” For added emphasis, you motioned towards the body on the ground. “No. But I don’t feel like I’m gonna break down anymore, so I guess there’s that.”

“Ya can go if ya really need to. I seriously dun’ mind doin’ this myself.”

“No. I’m fine, I promise,” you reassured him. You took a few steps towards the lifeless Olivia, your expression turning grim once more. “I have to do this.”

Cleverly sensing that there was no point in arguing, Daryl nodded. “Alright. Let’s do this, then.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not gonna share my house with him! No way in hell!”

“Linda, I understand your frustrations, but—”

“You don’t understand a thing, lady!” Linda—an older lady you estimated to be in her sixties—cut you off abruptly, her dark brown eyes glaring daggers at you. “He’s the community slob! A miscreant! I’m not gonna allow a man like that in my home. Over my dead body.”

You let out a wary sigh at her declaration. Opting to not take the argument any further, for the sake of your slowly increasing anger, you simply sent a nod in her direction and walked off. Your fists were clenched at your sides, your lips pursed as you attempted to keep your raising frustrations at bay. Linda was not the first person to be frustrated at the new living arrangements being implemented around the Alexandrian safe zone, and you highly doubted that she would be the last. You just hoped you would be able to keep your cool.

It had been a week since the unfortunate death of Olivia. A town meeting had been called in Gabriel’s church a few hours after the discovery of her body, and the fear amongst the people had spiked once Rick had made it known that the community was unsafe at that moment in time, and to not wander around without someone at their sides. However, like Daryl had predicted, people did not like the idea of grouping together in houses, and it had not been instituted until somebody had been attacked by the mysterious masked killer—the Boogeyman—when they were alone in their own home.

Thankfully, the person had survived the ordeal. They did suffer from a stab wound and a broken leg, but they were relatively okay, and they had managed to provide your group with more information, meaning you all were one step closer to solving the case.

You walked down the street and met up with Daryl, who had just finished helping Tobin settle in with Aaron and Eric. He only had to take one look at you to realize that you were not having a good day.

“Bad day?” he asked rhetorically. He knew damn well how bad of a day you were having. The look you sent his way had him chuckling and raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Dumb question.” When you simply sent him a strained smile, his eyebrows furrowed. He gently grabbed your hand and held it in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

“Everything.” Whether you were being dramatic or not, you did not know, nor did you care. “From having to convince people to group up with people they’re not particularly fond of, to having to make sure that people actually listen and don’t try to sneak off back into their own homes, and having to look over my shoulder every few seconds because I’m terrified of the Boogeyman taking me next? Yeah, I am not having a good time.”

Daryl gave your hand another squeeze, a sympathetic look on his features. “M’so sorry, Sweetheart. I wish ya didn’t have to do none of it.” He took a deep breath, before continuing. “And the Boogeyman ain’t gon’ get their hands on ya. M’not gon’ let ‘em. I promise.”

You knew Daryl could not promise you that. Despite all the precautions that were being taken, despite every safety measure that was being implemented to up the difficulty for the killer to strike again, you knew deep down that it would not be enough. Murderers always found a way to work around any obstacle in their paths. If they wanted something, they would stop at nothing to get it. And this killer in particular was extremely careful and smart, so you knew it was only a matter of time until they struck once more.

“I know, but—”

Your words got cut off by a deafening scream. Both you and Daryl whipped around and scanned the area to locate the source of the chilling sound. It did not take long to do so. Another scream sounded through the air, and you could instantly locate where it was coming from—Gabriel’s church.

You took off in a dead sprint, Daryl following closely behind you, his crossbow loaded and ready to be fired at a moment’s notice. Whilst running, you met up with Michonne, Rick and Glenn. Without exchanging so much as a single word, you all burst into the church, weapons raised and pointed in front of you.

That moment was the first moment you saw the Boogeyman face-to-face. The mask the killer was wearing appeared to be a mix between the Ghostface mask and the Jason mask from Friday the 13th. They had blood splattered all over their mask and clothes, and Spencer’s lifeless body laid behind the killer. The murderer was stalking towards Jessie Anderson who was on the ground in front of them, the woman in question backing up fearfully, tears streaming from her eyes.

“No, please!” Jessie pleaded, sobs tearing through her body. “Please!”

A gunshot echoed through the air, just narrowly missing the Boogeyman’s body. That made the killer turn around, their body tensing up as they regarded your group that stood in front of them. Cleverly sensing that they were severly outnumbered, with nothing to defend themselves other than an odd looking knife, they made a run for the back door.

“Go! I’ll take care of Jessie. I’ll get her home. You all take care of the Boogeyman.”

With parting nods, Daryl, Rick, Glenn and Michonne instantly sprung into action, following behind the murderer. However, the killer pushed a bunch of furniture and objects as they ran, effectively slowing them down, but that did not stop the people in your group from bounding out the back door, in search of the long sought-after Boogeyman.

With the immediate threat out of the way for the time being, you rushed forward towards Jessie. You helped her up from the ground and onto one of the seats in the church. Taking a seat next to the clearly traumatized woman, you placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Jessie?” you began softly. However, the woman did not acknowledge you. It was as if your voice had not even reached her ears. The poor woman had seriously gone through it. “Jessie, you’re okay. They’re gone. They’re not gonna hurt you anymore.”

The Anderson woman closed her eyes and shook her head. “Spencer…” she started, her voice trembling as she spoke. “He—he’s dead. The Boogeyman killed him and… and…”

The woman could not even finish her sentence. She broke down into sobs and threw her arms around you unexpectedly. You tensed up momentarily, not expecting her to seek comfort in you. You and Jessie were not exactly close. In fact, Jessie Anderson was probably one of the few Alexandrians you had not been able to develop a big liking for. It was nothing personal towards the woman. You just were not particularly fond of her.

Snapping yourself from your thoughts, you slowly wrapped your arms around Jessie, rubbing her back soothingly. Despite your indifference towards the woman, you could not turn her away in a time of need. What had happened to her was beyond terrible, and it clearly had taken its toll on her.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Jessie,” you whispered to her. “You didn’t deserve to experience that.”

Jessie sniffled and pulled away from your embrace. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry, too. You don’t deserve this either.”

Her words confused you. Your eyebrows furrowed together, but before you could say anything, Jessie lunged forward. The two of you tumbled to the ground, and the Anderson woman placed one of her hands over your mouth to muffle out any noises you made. She hastily reached forward and pulled a cloth from under one of the aisle seats, and brought it up to cover your nose and mouth.

A strange, foul-smelling stench filled your senses. You fought back against her hold, but Jessie had the clear upper hand. Your resistance against her hold grew weaker as the seconds ticked by on the metaphorical clock, until you felt too weak to fight back at all. Your arms fell limp at your sides and your eyes began to fall closed.

The last thing you saw before the darkness took over was the face of the blonde woman, her expression cold and filled with no remorse. And then…

Nothing.

You awoke to the smell of something completely foul under your nose. You shot awake with a loud gasp, your eyes being blinded by the harsh light of what appeared to be that of a… spotlight? Once your eyes had adjusted, and your mind had managed to catch up with you somewhat, you attempted to push yourself up, only to find that you could not do so. The same thing occurred with your legs. You were left completely immobile, except for your head.

“Well, well. Look who’s awake. Welcome back to the land of the living… Well, and the dead.”

The sound of a woman’s voice reached your ears. You snapped your head back up, and locked eyes with those of your captor; Jessie Anderson. If looks could kill, the woman would be long dead, for the glare you sent her way would be enough to incinerate her in seconds. However, looks did not possess the power to end one’s mortality, so you were completely powerless to do anything at that particular moment.

Jessie laughed at the glare on your face, the sound positively wicked. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Y/N. You should be glad it was me that got to you. If it was her, she would have killed you instantly. She doesn’t really like you all that much.”

Jessie motioned to something on her left, and you followed her gaze. At first, you could not make out a thing, but once the person stepped into the light, you could not help the gasp that escaped your chest. There, standing right in front of you with the very weapon that had been used to kill all those people, was none other than the supposed leader of the community, Deanna Monroe.

“Deanna,” you muttered in surprise, your eyes widened as the older woman stepped forward, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face.

Deanna shrugged and stepped up next to Jessie. “Hello, Y/N.” When you did not dare say anything to her greeting, she chuckled. “This is the part where you say, ‘hi, Deanna’.”

“You…” You trailed off, your eyes flickering between Deanna and Jessie. “You both… You’re—”

“The Boogeyman?” Jessie cut you off, sharing a smile with Deanna, one that had shivers sprinting over your spine. “Yeah, we are. Well, technically speaking, we’re the Boogeymen. Or Boogeywomen. Whatever floats your boat, really.”

“You two killed all those people,” you voiced in a tone that spoke of disbelief.

Jessie chuckled wickedly. “Ding, ding, ding! You really are smart, huh?” she asked rhetorically, her tone mocking.

“But Pete, and Reg—Spencer…Why?”

The Anderson woman scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Pete? Believe me, that’s not really any love lost. But hey, it was fun to play the helpless woman for a while, I’ll tell you that. As for Reg, that was my mistake. I thought he was Eugene. Believe me, Deanna still hasn’t forgiven me for that.”

“And I won’t,” Deanna said firmly. “But we have a common goal. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say.”

“And your son?” you inquired. Although you were interested to get some insight as to why these two seemingly harmless, friendly women would resort to cold-hearted killing, you were more so attempting to distract them by getting them monologuing, and it appeared to be working. If they were distracted, you would be able to free your hands from the duct tape securing it with the sharp edge of the bracelet, a gift from Carol, specifically gifted should you ever end up in a situation where you needed an inconspicuous sharp object. You truly treasured that woman, now more than ever.

A flash of remorse, of heartbreak, appeared in Deanna’s eyes, before she expertly schooled it with a blank, indifferent expression. “I didn’t want to do it. A mother never wants to do harm to her child in any way. But he saw Jessie place one of our weapons in Gabriel’s church to frame him for the killings, and he was already calling for Rick. I could not have him blow my partner’s cover, so I did what needed to be done.”

“But he was your son! How—how could you? How could you be so heartless?”

“Heartless?!” Deanna bellowed, her tone a stark difference from the usual kindness you had falsely grown to associate her with. “Do you wanna know what’s heartless? Having to hear that your youngest son’s life got cut short because of the people you brought in, people you thought could help change things for the better! Or having to live with the fact that even your own husband was beginning to trust your judgement! That he blamed you for everything that was going wrong! I was heartless by letting you people in! I was heartless because I wasn’t thinking about the people who had been under my care for years!”

Come on, you thought to yourself as you continued cutting away at the duct tape. Only a few more inches. “Oh, so we’re to blame? For everything? Even for your deranged, psychopath of a partner? Why did you have to offer up so much but all she did was kill her asshole husband?”

Jessie, suddenly being brought back into the spotlight, practically snarled at you. “You bitch—”

Snap! Your hands got freed from the harsh tightness of the duct tape. Without a moment of hesitation, you lunged towards Jessie, the sudden momentum miraculously snapping the duct tape securing your legs together. With your limbs freed and your mind on only one thing—to escape and find Daryl—you began to execute your plan. Take out Jessie, the one that was the main killer in all of this, and then Deanna, the brains behind the entire operation. Or at least, that’s what you suspected, anyway.

Due to having the element of surprise on your side this time, Jessie was relatively easy to take care of. You did not want to do it, only resorting to killing when absolutely necessary, not to mention the fact that Jessie had two boys as well, but you had to do it. You pushed the knife you had managed to swipe from her holster deep into her chest, watching the woman choke as she fell limp. She did not die, not instantly, but her wound rendered her unable to do anything. She was out of your way.

Pushing yourself off of the Anderson woman, you spun around to take care of Deanna. However, she was nowhere to be found. The only thing you could see was a door that was opened to the left. She must have fled, which proved your theory to be correct. She may have been the brains behind everything, but she could not do the killing herself. She needed somebody to do the dirty part for her, which meant that she would be easier to take care of.

Making sure to grasp the knife firmly, you rushed up the stairs and out of the building you were in, which you soon realized was the vacant building which doubled as a cell when needed. Clever, you thought as you looked around, hoping to spot the Monroe woman. You soon did, seeing her running down the street, back towards Gabriel’s church.

You took off in a dead sprint, your youth compared to Deanna’s granting you an advantage. You managed to catch up to her, tackling her to the ground right before she could reach the building. However, she let out a deafening scream, alerting everyone in the church to what was going on outside.

In an instant, everyone that had been partaking in, what you assumed to be, the meeting inside rushed out to see what the commotion was about. You winced as everyone’s eyes fell on you, and you knew that you were not in a particularly good spot at that moment. From their perspective, they could see their well loved and respected leader on the ground, screaming bloody murder, with one of the new and slightly feared members of the community on top of her, blood splattered all over her body whilst she had a knife against Deanna’s back.

Yeah, things were definitely not looking good for you.

“Help me!” Deanna yelled desperately, tears streaming from her eyes. “She’s gonna kill me! She’s the Boogeyman!”

You got off of the woman, raising your hands in surrender, although you still clutched the knife in your hand. You had seen your fair share of horror movies before. You would not be the person that dropped the knife to plead their innocence, only to get stabbed in the back by the actual bad guy. You definitely were not stupid enough for that.

Your breath got knocked out of your chest when your found family pushed towards the front of the crowd, their weapons raised and trained in front of them—at you. They did not truly believe Deanna’s claims, did they? Did they seriously have such little faith in your loyalty, in your beliefs to only kill when it was an absolute necessity? Did they truly not trust you?

“I’m not the killer,” you spoke carefully and slowly, your eyes locking with the familiar cerulean-coloured ones of your partner. He had his crossbow aimed at you, and it made your heart sink. “I’m not. Deanna is. And Jessie. They kidnapped me and revealed the whole thing.”

“That’s a lie!” Deanna cried out desperately. “She’s a liar! A murderer! She attacked Jessie and then chased after me when I walked in on her doing it! She’s a psychopath!”

“I’m not,” you insisted, attempting to keep your voice calm and even. It would not do you any good to fall to your knees and plead with them to believe you. “Jessie attacked me in the church after you all ran after the Boogeyman, after Deanna, and she dragged me down to that empty basement where you were kept, Rick.”

“She’s lying!” It was Deanna’s turn to insist. “She killed them all! Pete and Reg, and then she killed Olivia that day in the garage! She’s a cold-hearted murderer!”

Rick hummed and stepped forward. He slowly trailed his gun away from you, instead aiming it at the ground. “And Spencer? Who killed him, if she killed them all?”

Deanna hesitated for a moment, before she mustered up a reply. “She—she must be working with someone! With Daryl, maybe! You’ve all seen how close they are.”

“Daryl was there with us when we found the Boogeyman in the church. And so was she,” Rick voiced, motioning towards you. “And we never said where we found Olivia’s body, just that we found her dead.” That was the final nail in the coffin. Rick raised his gun and aimed it at Deanna, and you could see the blood drain from her face. Rick cocked his gun and stepped forward, his eyes cold as he regarded the supposed kind-hearted leader of the safe zone. “Don’t try to fight or run. If you do, we will kill you.”

Everything was a blur after that. Rick and Michonne somehow managed to secure handcuffs and ‘arrested’ Deanna, taking her back to the basement she had run from in the first place. They had told you to go see Denise, and that they would take care of Jessie’s body, should she be dead. Heeding their advice, you let Daryl escort you to the infirmary, and waited for Denise to finish up with another patient before she could attend to you.

“Ya alright?” Daryl asked you, finally speaking up after everything that had hone down.

You shrugged. “I’m as okay as can be expected, I guess.” Then, needing to get the question out of the way, you spoke up again. “Did you really believe that what Deanna said was true? That I killed all those people.”

Daryl instantly shook his head. “Nah. I knew from the get go that ya were innocent.”

You frowned slightly at his words. “How?”

“‘Cause Ron came clean to me ‘bout it right before Deanna made that whole spectacle. Said he heard his mom and Deanna talk ‘bout killin’ Olivia right before we found the body. Was gon’ tell everyone, but I got cut short.”

“Then why did you point your crossbow at me?”

“To get yer attention. To get ya to see the code I was sendin’ ya, but ya wouldn’t look down at my hand,” he told you with a small smile. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Ya had other things on yer mind.”

You sighed in relief. “Thank god you believed me. I thought Deanna was gonna get away with it.”

“Nah,” Daryl began. “Pretty sure none’a us believed her. We know ya wouldn’t do that. Hell, ya hesitate killin’ a rabbit. Yer too good for somethin’ as terrible as blatant murder.”

You smiled at him and leaned your head on his shoulder, sighing in contentment, being able to relax for the first time in weeks. The killers were caught, and you and your family were safe. You could sleep a little easier that night.

“We did it,” you mumbled, the exhaustion clear in your voice.

“Yeah,” Daryl voiced, pressing a soft kiss on top of your head. “Told ya we would.”

“Yeah, you did. Guess I should learn to listen to you more, huh?”

“It would pro’lly be for the best, yeah,” Daryl joked, chuckling when you punched his shoulder. “M’real glad yer safe, Sweetheart.”

“Me too,” you voiced. “Believe me, me too.” You nuzzled your face into Daryl’s shoulder. “I love you.”

A few beats of silence passed. “Love ya too, sweet girl. More than you’ll ever know.”

[el-bibi]

It's never too late (part two) │Fernando Alonso

pairing: fernando alonso x pr manager!ofc

words count: 1.3k

A/N: hellooo! I'm back with a new chapter and I think there will be only one more since this one is rather long and eventful. Anyways, I hope you will like it! As always, thank you for the likes and reblogs, they are very much appreciated!

part one │part three

taglist: @valeelavvale, @pear-1206

Some time had gone by, weeks had turned into months and before they knew it they were spending every second together. Fernando found himself looking forward to each and every one meeting or briefing he had, as long as he knew Laura would be there as well.

One night, after the Bahrain race and a meeting that had ended rather late, he had driven her back to their hotel and she had fallen asleep in the car. When he turned off the engine, he took some time to look at her. They were both adults yet he found himself caring for her almost in the same way he cared for his daughter. That unconditional love that makes you give your jacket to someone if they are cold, that kind of love that makes you check up on them constantly.

But Nando couldn't feel that way. She was his manager and he was basically at the end of his career, why would she want to stick around? He had nothing more to give. Yet he wanted to give it all for her.

After the Saudi Arabian GP he had somehow convinced her to spend some time in Monaco with him. Sure, Olivia would have been there as well, but he had the feeling that his daughter would be spending more time with her new love interest, Kimi.

Nando glanced at the perfectly set table, the flickering candlelight dancing across the crystal wine glasses, and then back at the risotto, its creamy perfection a testament to his surprisingly adept culinary skills.

He was waiting for Laura.

Laura Gomez, his manager, his confidante, the woman who had occupied his thoughts for far too long. Months, really. Months of stolen glances across the paddock, of lingering touches during contract negotiations, of late-night phone calls that drifted far beyond the purpose of racing strategy. Months of a silent, unspoken tension that crackled between them like static electricity.

He'd finally invited her. A simple dinner, he’d said, a chance to relax away from the pressure of Formula 1. But beneath the casual invitation lay a desperate yearning to finally bridge the gap that had separated them.

The doorbell rang, he took a deep breath, smoothed down his shirt, and opened the door.

Laura stood there, the Monaco breeze catching her dark hair, making it dance around her face like a halo. She wore a simple black dress that accentuated her curves without being 

"Fernando," she said, her voice a soft melody. "Thank you for inviting me."

He swallowed, the carefully rehearsed greeting dissolving in his throat. "Laura," he managed, stepping aside. "Come in."

The evening unfolded with a delicate grace. The risotto was, thankfully, a success. They talked about the upcoming season, the relentless pressure to perform and other work-related things. But beneath the professional conversation, the unspoken desire simmered. Their eyes met across the table, held for a beat too long, and then darted away. A brush of hands as they reached for the same bottle of wine sent a jolt through him.

As the evening progressed, the conversation loosened, the laughter flowed more easily. They shared stories from their childhoods, revealing vulnerabilities they usually kept hidden. He learned about her dreams, her fears, the sacrifices she had made to get where she was.

Finally, the dinner plates were cleared, and the remnants of the wine sat in the bottom of their glasses. 

"Let me help you with the dishes," Laura offered, rising from her chair.

"No, no, you relax," Fernando insisted. "I've got it."

But she was already moving towards the sink, her presence filling the small space. He followed her, suddenly needing to be close to her. As he began rinsing the plates, she started drying them, their hands brushing occasionally, sending sparks up his arm.

The comfortable silence stretched, filled only with the clinking of dishes and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Then, he couldn't resist any longer. He turned towards her, and noticed she was already looking at him. It was then or never.

"Laura, I…" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

Her eyes, wide and luminous, met his again. He leaned closer, the scent of her perfume filling his senses.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned even closer, setting the tea towel on the counter.

His lips brushed against hers, a tentative, hesitant touch that sent a wave of heat through him. She responded, her lips parting slightly, inviting him closer. He deepened the kiss, his hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling her closer and closer.

They kissed for a long moment, lost in the intoxicating sensation. The world outside the apartment, the pressures of Formula 1, everything faded away, leaving only the two of them.

Suddenly, a voice shattered the spell.

"Pa? I'm home!"

Fernando and Laura broke apart, their eyes wide with shock. Fernando spun around to see Olivia standing in the doorway.

The girl's eyes darted between her father and Laura, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Oh, my God," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Am I interrupting something?"

Fernando's face flushed crimson. He ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to regain his composure. "Olivia," he stammered. "We were— weren't you supposed to be with Kimi?" He tried to change the topic.

"We just went to grab some coffee." She shrugged. "So," she continued, leaning against the doorframe, "what were you two doing before I so rudely interrupted? Discussing next season's strategy? Or something a little more… personal?"

Fernando shot Olivia a warning look. "Olivia, that's enough," he said, his voice firm.

Laura, to her credit, was handling the situation with surprising calm. "Well," she said, "I should probably be going. It's getting late."

"Nonsense," Olivia said, stepping further into the apartment. "Stay for a while. We can all have a chat. I want to hear all about your plans for next season."

Fernando glared at his daughter. He knew exactly what she was doing. She was teasing him, yes, but she was also giving him a chance. A chance to salvage the evening, to make amends for the unexpected interruption.

He looked at Laura, his eyes pleading. "Please, stay," he said softly. "Just for a little while."

Laura hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," she said. "Just for a little while."

The atmosphere in the apartment shifted. As Fernando watched his daughter and the woman he was falling for interact, he felt a surge of affection for both of them. Sure, the kiss had been interrupted, but the spark remained. As Laura finally left, Fernando walked her to the door.

"Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "For everything."

Laura smiled. "Thank you," she replied. "It was… an interesting evening."

He leaned in and kissed her again, a quick, chaste kiss that still managed to send shivers down his spine. "We'll have to try that again," he whispered.

"We will," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Good night, Nando."

As he closed the door, he heard Olivia's voice from the living room. "So," she said, "are you going to ask her out on a real date, or are you going to keep relying on me to play Cupid?"

Fernando sighed and walked into the living room, a smile playing on his lips. He loved his daughter truly and wouldn't want to have it any other way, even with her relentless teasing.

"We have something to discuss, missy." He crossed his arms, pretending to be the strict parent he never managed to be. 

"Don't start. Kimi and I are just friends." She rolled her eyes.

"Sure, and so are Laura and I." He tried to be serious, he really did. But he couldn't even believe himself. Maybe it was time to ask that woman out properly…

[schemmentisimpasours]

Coming Home

(I didn't realize how stressed this woman looks in every gif.)

Summary: It's been a minute since I have written Benson but I have been rewatching SVU and it feels like coming home after a long day. This reflects that

Warnings: N/A

Masterlist

1.1k words

~-~

You opened the door to the apartment, sighing at the familiar smells. It had been one week since you had walked through these doors. You had been traveling overseas to help your team compete in your most intense playoffs to date. It had taken a day to travel there, three days of sweat and tears, two days of well-deserved relaxation, and one day rushing to get home. It had been a needed break, and you didn't regret a single moment of it. Especially with the gold medal hanging around your neck. However, being away from your wife and son with barely any time for communication had taken its toll on you. It felt so weird to be so happy and so homesick all at the same time.

You could have asked your wife and son to pick you up from the airport. And they would have come with large signs and gifts but your teammate had wanted to drive you. It was your last season together before she moved cross country and you were cramming as many minutes together as you could. Now as you stood in the doorway eyes still puffed from crying in her car all you wanted was a hug.

Rounding the corner to the entryway, Noah launched himself into your arms. You almost stumbled backwards by the impact but laughed into his embrace. Your son always had a sixth sense for when you needed him. He was taller than you now but he still had his young boyish grin and would curl up on the couch with you to watch old Disney movies. You kept your arms tight around him cherishing every moment he showered you in his warmth.

“Welcome home Mama,” He said squeezing you, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too buddie,” You smiled.

“I got to watch all of your games this weekend! You did so good. I even recorded some stuff to show my friends back at school,” Noah told you excitedly before taking your bags, “Want me to go put these away for you?”

“Sure, Mom home?”

“Waiting in the living room for you. I'll start soaking your gear for you too Mama.”

“You really don't have to Noah. I can do it.”

But Noah merely shook his head, “I remember how you do it. Plus this stuff stinks worse than my room.

You laughed rolling your eyes saying an I love you as Noah set off to the laundry room. You walked down the hall and immediately locked eyes with your wife. She was lounging on the couch wine glass in hand with her feet kicked up on the coffee table. Her reading glasses pushed back her brunette waves and she was in her usual at home relaxing outfit. One of your favorite t shirts hung loose around her over a pair of sweatpants. Just her presence had you weak in the knees. Then when she smiled as she saw you her eyes sparkling you fell in love with her all over again.

“Welcome home mi armor,” She grinned, “I missed you so much.”

You walked to the couch placing a kissing on her lips. When you pulled back you removed the wine glass taking it with you as you collapsed on the couch next to her. You took a large drink before you placed your head on her shoulder. She curled her fingers through your open hand and squeezed gently. When she placed a kiss on the top of your head you felt the final pieces clicking into place.

“You have a good trip? I watched all of your games,” Olivia beamed.

“It was an amazing trip,” You grinned, “But now you got me daydreaming of the game pulled up in the bull pen and that is something I would have loved to see.”

“Oh I took pictures of it and everything,” Olivia said grabbing her phone.

She scrolled through a couple of photos of everyone gathered around the large tv. Your team was across the screen for the championship game. Noah was in a large bean bag on the floor a bowl of popcorn in hand. Fin was next to him handing him a soda. Curry and Bruno were sitting on the tops of desks leaning forward in anticipation. Even Rollins and Carisi were there sitting in chairs watching the action unfold. You spotted a couple of unis looking through the glass as well.

You let out a large laugh wrapping her arm around Olivia, “I can’t believe you did that. You are such a dork.”

“Only for my wife,” Olivia said putting her phone away.

She heart warmed as you settled further into Olivia’s embrace. You looked at the pictures that covered your living room. Twenty six years of your relationship in picture frames. Your first date back when Olivia had first become a detective and you had gone to celebrate with drinks. Another from your first apartment together after you had moved in on your third year anniversary. A couple of pictures from your travels when Olivia had went with the FBI and took you along with her. A handful more photos from your wedding Olivia dressed in a tailor tuxedo and you in a flowing dress. There were pictures from shortly after she had returned from Lewis’ kidnapping. Her hair was chopped short and the necklace you had bought her hung loose around her neck. You remembered those dark days before Lewis finally died where you thought you had lost Olivia forever but she had come back to you. Every nightmare and flashback you thought would tear you apart only brought you closer together. Then shortly after Noah came into your life and your whole world had been turned upside down. Now you were mothers raising a baby together navigating motherhood when your mothers had never been there for you. But as he grew into a stunning young man you didn’t regret a single moment of it. There were million of moments in between that existed in the photos and outside but you remembered all of them. Some were big and some were small. Some you didn’t appreciate while they were happening but now that they were gone you realized how much you cherished them. Everything about your life with Olivia was beautiful and you didn’t know where you would be without her.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” She asked pulling you from your swirling memories.

“You think we are ever going to get sick of each other?”

“After everything we have been through together,” Olivia responded glancing at your future and past unfolding in front of you, “I will never get sick you my love.I think that we will find a way back to each other in every life time.”

[trulybetty]

late night.

pairing: dieter bravo x actressf!reader word count: 6,337 warnings: dieter bravo, alcohol, reader has a glass of wine, p in v, practice safe sex, don't take sex ed from fanfics, barely beta'd, mistakes are my own estimated reading time: 31 minutes summary: much to your annoyance, an unexpected guest arrives at the late-night talk show you've been booked on. written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Challenge. ao3: linked

x. masterlist

A/N: I'm terribly late to completing this, not even fashionably late, I dare not look when the deadline was. Without being all vaugebook status - I lost my love for writing, found it and life said lmao, no. But I'm slowly getting back and working through my wip's.

Late Night.

The city lights of London had glowed well into the late night. Casting a hazy glow over the bustling streets when you’d arrived at the TV studios just over an hour earlier. It was Thursday, and the city carried the anticipation of the weekend ahead. You were in town for the recording of a British late-night TV show that would air the following night. The studio was abuzz with energy and excitement as entourages arrived and technicians prepared for the recording.

You were sat backstage, sat in a makeshift hair and makeup set-up for last-minute touch-ups. The hustle of it all, the sound of chatter and laughter fought to distract you. You shifted to get comfortable in the chair you’d been planted in moments ago. Stifling a yawn, you wrinkled your nose as the lingering scent of hairspray hit your nose. Even though you’d been in the city for three days already, this interview—a cap on a whirlwind press tour—the jetlag was still hard to contend with having hit the ground running since you’d touched down in Heathrow.

Adjusting the delicate layered necklace that rested against the crisp white blouse you wore, you watched as the fluorescent lights above caught on the linked chains. Both were items your stylist had picked out for you. A little rich for your own taste, but you were at the mercy of the machine that was the studio bankrolling this press tour.

Your manager, Olivia, stood beside you and flipped through cue cards with the pre-selected questions for your segment. Her stacked bracelets jingled as she shuffled through them again. “Remember, keep it light and engaging, babe,” she reminded you, ignoring the exasperated sighs of the makeup artist as they tried to work around her. They love a good anecdote on this show.”

You brushed down the front of your pants, picking at an imaginary piece of lint. “Got it?” you nodded, despite the fact that your mind was elsewhere.

Something felt off. There was a tension in the air that set your nerves on edge. You couldn’t put your finger on it—call it intuition, call it a severe lack of sleep, whatever it was—it felt like something was going to tip the balance of that evening.

And then you heard it.

That laugh, that unmistakable laugh followed by a voice you’d hoped you’d never have to hear again, at least not in person. Your heart sank as recognition settled in.

“Is that…?” you began, your eyes widening as you whipped your head around to face Olivia, your make-up artist cursing under their breath.

Before Olivia could respond, the unmistakable presence that was Dieter fucking Bravo sauntered into view. His trademark entourage of hangers-on and ego strokers and a gaggle of studio staff hanging onto his every word. His tousled hair and effortless grin only fueled your irritation further.

“Liv, what’s he doing here?!” you hissed.

She looked genuinely perplexed. “I had no idea he was booked for tonight,” she said, rechecking her phone and the hardcopy of the night's rundown. He is not on the schedule. " You shot her a disbelieving look. “Honestly, babe, I had no clue!”

Dieter’s gaze swept the room before landing on you. His eyes lit up, and a slow mischievous grin spread across his face. He smoothly excused himself from his group, reciting that he’d miss them all equally, if not more, in that Hollywood-cliched faux sincerity before he strode toward you, with that infuriating swagger that was all him.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he drawled, stopping just within the boundaries of your personal space, “My favourite almost was co-star, fancy meeting you here,” he shot Olivia a look, throwing her a charming wink that she responded to with a roll of her eyes.

You straightened in your seat before clearing your throat, “Dieter,” you replied cooly, fighting the urge to roll your own eyes.

“Dieter,” Olivia said, turning to address him in the hope of running interference, “always a pleasure,” the tight smile she gave him at a contrast to her greeting.

He ignored her, his focus solely on you, “Funny, they didn’t mention you’d be on the show tonight.”

“Funny,” you echoed, meeting his eye in the reflection of the mirror, “they didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

He let out an obnoxious laugh, the sound grating on your nerves, “Must be our lucky day then,” he said, propping his hip against the vanity table—much to the annoyance of the makeup artist who had now given up trying to complete their job and had moved on to organizing their brushes.

“Or just poor scheduling,” you muttered, wishing for someone or something to give you an excuse to leave.

His eyes finally leaving you his gaze fell on the untouched glass of champagne in front of you, “May I?” he asked rhetorically, the flute already at his lips.

“Help yourself,” you said dryly with a wave of your hand, anything to get him moving on.

He took a sip, “Mmm… a 2000 vintage would you say?” he gave you a smirk and you bristled, “A memorable year wouldn’t you say?” his eyes met yours through the mirror over the rim of the champagne flute, a challenge in his eyes.

You were a damn good actress, but it was a fight to keep your face neutral. You weren’t going to give him this, not the satisfaction of pressing on the still tender bruise of the year everything had gone sideways. The year your promising big break had imploded before it’d even had a chance to begin. All in thanks to the erratic behaviour of the man beside you.

Your jaw tightened, “Is there a reason you’re here Dieter? Or are you simply here to raid the refreshments?”

He downed the remainder of the alcohol, making no attempt to hide his grin, “Can’t a guy catch up with old friends?”

The grin on his face only grew wider when the emphasis on the word friend garnered a visible flinch from you. It might have been a loose truth once upon a time, but you two were the furthest thing from it now.

You arched your eyebrow at him, finally turning in your seat to look up at him, “That’s a generous definition of the word, isn’t it?”

Sensing that Dieter was doing a good job of getting under your skin, Olivia cleared her throat, “We should really get back to prepping here, so if you would excuse us, Dieter.”

Dieter made no move to leave, “Oh, don't let me interrupt,” instead, he plucked the cue cards from Olivia's hand shuffling through them. “Let's see—keep it light and engaging,” he read aloud. “Sounds like riveting stuff, maybe you should tell them about the time at Cannes, you know—with the yacht and that producer you accused of stealing your script idea?” You glared at him, your nails digging into the arms of the chair, “You were…loud. And also right, I think,” he gave an exaggerated frown, “Too bad you puked overboard before you could make your point though.”

You glared at him, “It was food poisoning,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sure,” he nodded, his face giving no indication he believed you.

Before anything else could be said a production assistant appeared, “Mr. Bravo, you’re required over in wardrobe to change.”

Dieter casually handed his glass over to an unimpressed Olivia, who took it with a scowl and held it delicately with two fingers as if it might contaminate her, “Well ladies, always a pleasure running into you both.” Then, turning to you directly, he added, “I heard they’re putting you on before me… break a leg,” he winked with a parting smirk.

“This is un-fucking believable,” you cursed, your eyes reluctantly following Dieter’s retreating figure.

Olivia sucked in a breath, “Don’t let him get under your skin,” she cautioned as she deposited Dieter’s glass on the vanity, wiping her hand on the arm of her jacket, “he’s not worth it.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered under your breath as the makeup artist was finally free to return to touch up the rest of your makeup.

The stage lights bathed you in a warm glow as you settled into the plush chair across from the show’s host. The audience had erupted into applause at your arrival, the lights blocking them from view. You flashed a confident smile, the kind that had won over countless fans.

“Welcome back! Always a pleasure to have you on the show,” the show’s host beamed as he shuffled his cue cards.

“Thank you, it's wonderful to be here,” you replied smoothly, well rehearsed in the etiquette of late-night talk shows. The cameras panned out and for a brief moment, you caught a brief glimpse of the studio audience, rows of bright eyes and bright smiles. You spotted Olivia in the wings, she gave you a reassuring thumbs up.

The interview progressed smoothly, the host effortlessly guiding the conversation through your most recent project, those upcoming, and even touching on your personal life. You played along, deflecting the more personal questions with ease and a light-hearted laugh, well-versed in the art of maintaining your privacy all the while still appearing open and relatable.

“So now,” the host spoke to the audience, your interview at a close, “we have a wee bit of a cheeky surprise waiting for us backstage,” he turned to you with a conspiratorial smile, “and I understand you and our next guest share a connection?”

Your smile tightened as you feigned your best impression of surprise, “Oh gosh, really? I’m intrigued. I do love surprises!”

“Well, you’re in for a good one! Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Dieter Bravo!”

The audience erupted into a thunderous applause of standing ovations. It was a fight not to roll your eyes, how someone as messy and equally irksome as Dieter Bravo could still command such adoration from the public, you'd never understand.

Dieter strolled onto the stage, dressed in a flashy silk shirt, its buttons undone halfway to reveal the glow of tanned skin and a glint of a chain from which his signature Ray-Bans hung. He waved flamboyantly at the cheering audience, blowing exaggerated kisses that only spurred more applause. You had just stood from your seat to shift over for him—hoping to avoid more contact with him than necessary—when his hands settled firmly on your shoulders and pulled you into a theatrical embrace.

With the lights beaming down on you and the cameras rolling, the heat of his body pressed against yours you forced a grin for the watching crowd. You felt the heat of his breath at your ear, just before he spoke in a whisper only you could hear, “Miss me, gorgeous?”

Despite your best intentions, the words sent a shiver down your spine—whether it was annoyance or something else entirely, you weren’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t time to explore those feelings. The audience oblivious to the crackling tension between you two, ate it up as you went through the motions of allowing him to air kiss you dramatically on each cheek.

He released you just as theatrically, gesturing to the audience to keep cheering and you took the opportunity to slide into your seat, determined to continue your air of unbothered confidence in his presence. Meanwhile, Dieter dropped himself into his seat with the kind of shit-eating grin that said he knew exactly how well he was getting under your skin.

The host, picking up on the dynamics between the two of you, beamed, “Well, well, it looks like our stage just got a little more star-studded. How exciting is this?”

As the audience responded with raucous applause, you exchanged a fleeting glance with Dieter. His eyes glimmered mischievously as he raised a knowing eyebrow at you before launching into a charisma-filled anecdote that had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. It only did well to remind you of the many times he’d used showmanship to deflect attention.

The host leaned forward eagerly. “It's not often we get two dynamic talents such as you two on one stage! You two worked together a few years back, no?”

“That's right,” Dieter interjected, turning to give you a wide grin before you could open your mouth to respond. “It was a really unforgettable experience.”

You shot him a warning look as you shifted in your seat. “Unforgettable, indeed.”

The host leaned in, clearly enjoying the underlying tension. “Do share!” he encouraged as he looked to the audience’s agreement. “Any memorable moments?”

Dieter leaned back casually, his eyes never leaving your face. “Well, there was that time someone decided to rewrite half the day’s script without telling anyone.”

You felt a spike of irritation as you bristled, “Better than not showing up to set at all, don’t you think?” you countered, forcing a tight smile.

The audience chuckled nervously, sensing the undercurrents between you.

“Ah, creative differences!” the host exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.

“Something like that,” you said, keeping your tone even.

Dieter leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving your face. “You know, it's all water under the bridge now. Besides, some of us have moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Yes, professionalism can take one far,” you replied sharply.

He smirked. “And a good sense of humour.”

You clenched your jaw, determined not to let him rattle you further.

The host cleared his throat, “So, any chance of a reunion on screen?”

“Unlikely,” you both said in unison.

The audience laughed, and despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his, and something indefinable passed between you.

“Well, one can always hope,” the host said with a wink. “Now, moving on…”

The remainder of the interview continued with practiced ease, though Dieter never missed an opportunity to test your composure. Each surreptitious remark was a calculated attempt to unsettle you, but you held your ground. But by the time the cameras stopped rolling, your patience however had been worn thin.

As you walked backstage, the loud chatter and bustling activity faded into a distant hum. Your pace quickened as you made your way straight to your dressing room, Olivia hot on your heels. Finally reaching your destination, you swung open the door to your dressing room.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

“I'm fine,” you replied curtly, though your hands were shaking with frustration. Because despite your best efforts, the memory of Dieter’s smug grin during the interview kept infiltrating your thoughts, a consistent reminder that he had succeeded in getting under your skin.

“At least you won't have to deal with him anymore tonight,” Olivia reassured you.

“Small mercies,” you muttered. Yet even as you said it, you could still feel the unsettled anger burning in your chest that showed no sign of cooling any time soon.

After what felt like an eternity, the commotion of packing up your dressing room finally settled. You breathed a sigh of relief as you opened the door, eager to escape to the comfort of your hotel room. However, before you could take a step forward, a familiar voice rang out from down the hallway, “Leaving already?”

You turned to see Dieter leaning casually against the wall, his gaze unapologetically fixed on you. He looked maddeningly at ease, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn on stage, as though your tense exchanged barbs hadn’t ruffled him in the slightest.

“What do you want?” you snapped, turning to face him against your better judgment.

He shrugged, “Just thought we could catch up,” he said innocently.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you retorted, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “Pulling that shit out there, what the fuck were you thinking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still holding a grudge, I see.”

You felt heat rise up your neck. “A grudge? You nearly derailed my career.”

He sighed dramatically. “Must we rehash ancient history? It’s such a bore.”

You felt a surge of anger. “Ancient history? You sabotaged our film and nearly destroyed my career.”

He shrugged, “Depends on how you look at it. I like to think I added a bit of je ne sais quois.”

“You're unbelievable,” you fumed, turning on your heel and striding to the exit. He didn’t even bother calling after you; his amused silence was just another demonstration of his nonchalance to his actions and their consequences—and it only proved to stoke your anger further.

Finally back at your hotel, in the quiet peace of your suite, you relished in the calm after the storm. You’d slipped off your shoes, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet between your toes, before you collapsed onto the sofa. The London city lights twinkled outside your window. Tiny dots across the horizon, highlighting a busy city still moving despite the late hour. Opening a bottle of iced water you’d retrieved from the fridge you tried to unwind. But the night’s surprise encounter with Dieter replayed incessantly and uninvited in your mind.

Before you could reach for your phone, looking for a distraction in the form of some retail therapy, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Frowning, you glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight and you’d already debriefed with Olivia, she’d wished you a good night. Shuffling across the room, pulling on a cardigan as you went, there came a muffled voice from the other side of the door, “Room service.”

Confusion knitted your brow. “I didn't order anything,” you muttered, approaching the door with caution.

On the balls of your feet, you looked up through the spy hole, and groaned when you saw who it was, “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” you said under your breath exasperated. “Go the fuck away, Dieter.”

“Just give me a minute,” he insisted as you watched him scratch at his beard.

You contemplated ignoring him and returning to your bed, but the thought of him loitering outside your door was enough to convince you against your better judgment. The last thing you needed was someone getting wind of Dieter Bravo making a fuss outside your hotel room in the middle of the night. With a sigh, you unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door just enough so that the chain bar was still in place.

“What could you possibly have to say that hasn't already been said?” you demanded.

Dieter held up a hand, a gesture of peace, “Please.”

You hesitated and argued with yourself, “This is highly inappropriate.”

He met your gaze, his expression surprisingly earnest. “I wanted to apologize.”

You shooed him off as you tried to close the door, “Fine. Apology accepted. Goodnight.”

He shoved his foot between the door and its frame, preventing you from closing it. “Can I come in, please?”

You stared at him incredulously, “Why would I ever let you do that?”

“Because I do owe you an apology,” he said, his tone surprisingly earnest, “and you do love to be proven right,” he smirked, knowing you’d let your guard down when he played to your ego. “Come on, it’ll just be a moment.”

You studied him for a moment, he looked too relaxed for what it was he was asking. The dishevelled hair, the t-shirt that looked like it’d never seen an iron, your exasperation wavered for a moment. “You have some nerve showing up after that shit you pulled on national TV.”

He only smiled wider, and it made you want to slap it off of his face. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that suggested that he was possibly genuine in his ask.

“I know,” his voice was devoid of sarcasm, “which is why I couldn’t leave things as they were.”

You pursed your lips together and gave him one last look of lingering frustration before moving back just enough to open the door, begrudgingly allowing him in against your better judgment.

“You have a knack for poor fucking timing Bravo.”

He offered a half-smile. “Better late than never, am I right?”

You regarded him coolly, “You know you really can't just show up at my hotel room,” you told him. “One minute, that’s all you’ve got.”

The smirk on Dieter’s face telling you he believed he’d already won. He produced a bottle of wine from behind his back,

“Technically, I did announce myself as room service,” he pointed out, holding up the bottle of wine, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he ignored the time limit you’d given him.

“Did you steal that from the green room?”

He didn't answer, but his grin told you everything you needed to know.

“You're unbelievable,” you sighed.

You watched as he took in the expanse of your hotel suite. “Nice place,” he remarked.

“Your time is running out,” you reminded him as you checked your watch.

He turned to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for tonight. For everything, really.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That's quite the blanket apology.”

He shrugged innocently. “Fancy a nightcap?”

You let out a dry laugh. “ You think a bottle of stolen wine and a poor attempt at an apology will fix everything?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye as he spied the wine glasses on the table. “It is a very good wine.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at the corners of your mouth. “You're absurd.”

“So I've been told,” he said, handing you a generously filled glass.

You clinked yours against his reluctantly. “To better judgment,” you countered dryly.

Dropping onto the sofa, you both sipped in silence for a moment. The wine was rich and full-bodied, warming you from the inside out.

“So, was antagonizing me on live television part of your grand plan?” you finally asked, breaking the silence.

He sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “Believe it or not, I didn't know you'd be there tonight.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you replied skeptically.

He met your gaze. “It's true. I really was a last-minute addition. Didn’t know I’d be on until half an hour before.”

Silence enveloped the room again, but this time it felt more contemplative than awkward.

“Why are you here, Dieter?” you asked quietly.

He took a deep breath. “I really do want to apologize.”

“She’s in town isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes as the realization settled in, you pointed a finger around your wine glass at him, “She turned you down so you’re on my doorstep.” Dieter didn’t say anything, but instead inspected the contents of his wine glass, “Hah, I knew it.”

Dieter’s tumultuous relationships were nothing short of front-page news and he was never short on supplying exploits for further column inches on the topic. However, his hang-up on this particular ex seemed to haunt him more than any of the others. You’d even worked with her once or twice before. A script for a project she was working on was on your desk back home in preparation for auditions the following month. You had no clue how someone so together had ever been with someone like Dieter if you were entirely honest.

You watched him now, with amusement, noting the way his jaw tensed at your accusation.

He narrowed his eyes at you, “She’s got nothing to do with this and I was actually sorry, though very much reconsidering it now,” he grumbled.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “You're unbelievable, you know that? Classic Dieter Bravo—gets rejected and runs to stir up chaos wherever he can.”

“It's not like that,” he said defensively, though his tone lacked any serious conviction.

You laughed, “Oh please, Dieter. Unfortunately I know you too well. This isn’t about me, it’s about your bruised ego,” you challenged, crossing your arms as you leaned back into the sofa.

He leaned back himself, eyeing you with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“A moment?” you scoffed, “is that what you call this?”

He smirked, “Would you prefer I call it foreplay?”

You nearly choked on your wine, “You’re unrepentant. I can see why she turned you down.”

“Part of my charm,” he winked, though the smile he plastered on his face didn’t meet his eyes.

You took another drink from your glass, it was truly frustrating how this man could occupy so much space in a room, and in your thoughts, without even trying.

“You should go,” you said, dropping your glass to the coffee table with a bit more force than you intended. “I don’t have time for your games tonight Dieter, I have an early flight.”

He reached for his wine glass, draining it, “In that case, I’ll take my leave.”

You raised an eyebrow, this you hadn’t expected, the Dieter you knew would be begging or leaning into some cocky, insufferable line that would make you want to slap him—or kiss him—depending on the day. You watched him gather himself, however he made no move to leave.

A silent impasse passed between the two of you, you bit your lip—you were the first to break, “There’s nothing between us except years of bad history and a mutual inability to get along.”

He tilted his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Positive,” you replied, with more conviction than you actually felt.

But he sat there, his presence electric, and it was pissing you off how much you didn’t want him to leave.

Dieter turned towards you, his voice low and coaxing. “You could kick me out,” he said, closing the distance between you both on the sofa, “but you know I’ll always come back.”

“Ever think I don’t want you to?” you shot back, ignoring the waver in your voice.

He leaned in, and you swallowed hard, “Then why am I still here?”

You weighed up your options. There was going to be nothing between the two of you, aside from this bitter back and forth—which if you were honest, was getting rather tiresome as the man was never going to admit true fault. However, you would be a liar if you denied he was handsome, and the idea of getting some satisfaction out of this situation would be appreciated given it had been a while since the last time you’d had sex, let alone sex that was worth remembering. And there he was, sitting on your couch like he owned the place, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

The wine had warmed you and softened the edges of your irritation and as much as you hated to admit it (and you’d never speak it out loud, his ego was big enough as it was), there was something about Dieter Bravo that made it hard to look away.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath and before you could allow any reason to enter your mind you pulled him by the shirt, your lips crashing with his, his just as hungry as yours. The kiss was urgent, messy and a collision of years of pent-up frustration.

His wine glass slipped from his hand, forgotten, as he leaned into you, his hands finding your waist, “Finally,” he murmured against your mouth, smugness dripping from him.

“Don’t ruin it,” you warned, nipping at his bottom lip to shut him up.

Dieter groaned into your mouth as your fingers dove into his hair, his curls twisting around your fingers and you couldn’t help but tug at them, tilting his head to give you better access. He obliged, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.

“Dieter,” you murmured, the name tasting strange on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, laced with amusement.

You didn’t have time to argue with him—not when his hands were tugging at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. You didn’t protest when he discarded it onto the floor, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that made you shiver.

“I still fucking hate you,” you hissed, your lips felt bruised and yet you wanted more of it.

He smiled, “I know, sweetheart. That's what I love about you."

You shook your head, a wry smile breaking through against your better judgment. “You're insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“One night,” you said firmly. “This doesn't change anything.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

You took his hand, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

The bed creaked under your weight as you fell onto it, his body pressing against yours. His mouth trailed kisses along your collarbone before finding its way back to yours. You gasped as he nibbled on your bottom lip; a mixture of pleasure and frustration surged through you. He tasted like wine and the stubble from his unshaven beard felt deliciously rough against your skin.

Your hands fought with his to unbutton his pants and pull them down, him pulling away momentarily to strip himself of the remainder of his clothes. He crawled back up the bed, his hair an unruly mess—more so than usual—and his smirk firmly in place, as if he had all the time in the world and you weren’t lying there, aflamed and impatient. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him, instead grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him closer.

“Stop dragging this out,” you snapped, your voice low and breathless.

“Impatient now?” he teased, he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Say please.”

You glared at him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him even closer. “If you don’t shut up and do something useful—”

His mouth silenced you, crashing into yours with a ferocity that made your head spin. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and dip and you couldn’t deny how good it felt—how he seemed to know exactly where to touch to make your breath hitch or your back arch.

“You’re so bossy,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed down the column of your neck, his stubble leaving a trail of delicious friction in its wake. “Kinda sexy.”

“Dieter,” you warned as you lifted your hips for him to rid you of the rest of your clothes.

He hummed, a low gravelly sound as he obliged you, his fingers surprisingly deft as they worked on the clasp of your bra. It too joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. His hands cupped your breasts, he groaned in delight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and you had to bite back a moan, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But when his mouth soon followed, you couldn’t help the sound that escaped your lips. His tongue circled the peak of your nipple, his lips closing around it—with just the right amount of pressure. You fisted his hair, pulling him closer, arching your hips up off of the bed and he chuckled, the vibrations sending a shiver through you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, lifting his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“More than ever,” you lied.

In no time, his clothes were added to the heap on the floor. You pulled him in as he knelt on the bed above you, your legs spread, and ankles hooked around the back of his knees.

He smirked, his hands sliding down to your hips, his fingers digging into you as he pulled you closer, “Sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he was there, pressing against you, the heat of him searing and teasing. You gasped, aching to take him, and he groaned, the sound raw and unfiltered. He nudged his hips, teasing your entrance and it sent a spark of heat up your spine that had you throwing your head back in frustration.

“Dieter,” you breathed out as you looked up at him, a smug smile plastered across his face, you reached up and grabbed the mess of curls at the nap of his neck, “how about instead of running your mouth,” you pulled him down, “you put that mouth to better use?”

The glint in Dieter’s eyes at not only the challenge issued, but the act of you taking charge of the moment from him lit up his face. Needing no direction, he took his tongue and trailed a blazing hot path from your breasts to your navel. His hands were everywhere, just as chaotic as him, mapping your body in a way that made you wonder if he’d been planning this for years. You hated how good it felt, how your body betrayed you by responding so quickly to his touch, so eager. But you couldn’t deny it—Dieter Bravo knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth reached the apex of your thighs, and you tensed, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a smirk playing on his lips as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt through you, and you bit back a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as if anchoring yourself to reality. He hummed, a low, approving sound, and the vibration sent a ripple of pleasure through you. You hated that he was good at this, hated that you couldn’t pretend it wasn’t affecting you.

“Stop being stubborn and let go,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can feel how much you want this.”

“You’re impossible,” you ground out, your hips shifting involuntarily against his mouth, your body already deciding whose side it was on.

He laughed, a rough, delicious sound, and continued his relentless assault on your senses. Your resolve crumbled piece by piece, each touch, each kiss, each expert flick of his tongue pulling you under. Your breath came quick and shallow as heat coiled inside you, tighter and tighter.

“Dieter—” This time it was a plea.

“There she is,” he said, a dark chuckle rolling off his lips as he went back to work with renewed vigour.

You gasped as his fingers slid inside you, working in tandem with his tongue, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made your toes curl. When you finally came, it was with a cry that surprised even you, your body arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through you like a storm.

Dieter crawled back up, his face gleaming with satisfaction, and you pulled him into a kiss that was as much about reclaiming control as it was about desire. He obliged, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that matched your own. You could taste yourself on him, a dizzying reminder of what he’d just done, and yet it only made you want more.

“Say it,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say you want me.”

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed, your nails digging into his back.

He laughed, low and rough. With one thrust, he filled you completely. You cried out, the sound muffled by his shoulder as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden fullness.

“Not so bad, is it?” he murmured, his voice laced with smugness.

You glared at him, but before you could respond, he moved, pulling back—so far back he teased you with the tip and between clouded thoughts of pleasure you were impressed with his ability to hold himself there. He hovered, teasing your entrance, taunting you with the promise of more. But then he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

“You're so tight,” he breathed, his voice low and rough with restraint. “I could stay right here forever.”

However it was short-lived, he soon picked up the pace, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall as he drove into you with increased urgency with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, his mouth everywhere, and you couldn’t keep up with the sensations. The room was filled with your mingled moans and gasps echoing off the walls.

You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he could reduce you to this—this messy, desperate, undeniable need. But more than that, you hated how good it felt, how right it felt, how it seemed like he was made to fit you.

“Dieter,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, his pace faltering for just a moment.

“Don’t stop.”

He laughed again, the sound wild and raw, and obliged, driving into you with a rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

You were a mess of contradictions—hate and desire, frustration and pleasure, all tangled together in a knot you couldn’t untangle. But at that moment, you didn’t care. All you cared about was the release building inside you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped, sending you soaring.

He followed you over the edge, his body tensing as he buried his face in your neck, his groan muffled against your skin. You both lay there, Dieter’s weight settled on top of you, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the hammering of his heartbeat gradually slowing against your chest.

Finally, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking with yours. “Still hate me?” he asked, his voice rough and laced with amusement.

You glared at him, your chest still heaving. “More than ever.”

He smirked, rolling off you and onto his back. “Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

[bananafiction]

The Weight of Silence Part 1

Olivia Benson x Genderless Reader

2k words

The precinct hummed with the low buzz of voices, the rhythmic clicking of keyboards, and the shuffling of files as the Special Victims Unit delved into another case. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your tired arms over your head, stealing a glance at Captain Olivia Benson’s office. The glass walls of her office provided a clear view of her, head bent over a pile of files, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her desk lamp cast a soft glow that framed her in shadows, giving her an aura of authority and elegance.

You had been Olivia’s lieutenant for years now. Together, you’d seen more horrors than you cared to remember, stood in the thick of crimes that shook the city to its core, and brought justice to those who couldn’t fight for themselves. But through it all, you had stood by Olivia’s side. It wasn’t just a professional relationship—it was a bond forged in fire, through trust, respect, and something more, something neither of you dared to acknowledge.

There was an undeniable chemistry between you, something you could feel in every shared glance, every brush of her hand against yours, and every quiet moment spent side by side, piecing together the details of a case. It lingered like a shadow between you, this unspoken tension that crackled in the air, and though you both pretended it wasn’t there, everyone in the precinct knew.

“Lieutenant, we got something.” Fin’s voice broke you from your thoughts.

You turned toward him, grateful for the distraction. He held a tablet out to you, a frown pulling at his lips. “Take a look at this.”

You took the tablet, your eyes narrowing as you read over the autopsy report. The victim, a 16-year-old girl named Lily Sampson, had been found three days earlier in a dilapidated apartment building on the outskirts of Manhattan. Bruises covered her body, and the evidence pointed to a particularly violent sexual assault. The medical examiner had just confirmed that the DNA found at the scene was a match for a known predator—a man by the name of Gavin Ross, who had slipped through the cracks of the justice system more than once. A chill ran down your spine. Ross was bad news, and if he was involved, this case was far from over.

Olivia emerged from her office, her sharp gaze landing on you. She seemed to sense the change in the room, her posture immediately shifting to one of alertness. “What do we have?”

You passed her the tablet. “It’s worse than we thought. DNA came back, and it’s a match for Gavin Ross.”

Her eyes darkened as she skimmed through the report. “Ross… Damn it. I thought we’d locked him up two years ago.”

“We did. He got out on a technicality. Bad evidence collection on a prior case,” you said, your voice laced with frustration. “And now we’ve got a dead teenager on our hands.”

Olivia clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing with anger and determination. “We’re not letting him slip through again. Not this time.”

Her resolve was one of the things you admired most about her. No matter how dark or twisted a case got, she never gave up. But with cases like this, you knew it took a toll. She bore the weight of every victim, carried the burden of every injustice like a cross. You saw it in the way her shoulders tensed at every new revelation, in the tired lines that had begun to crease her face.

“Let’s bring him in,” Olivia said, her voice firm. “Fin, Rollins, see if you can get an address on Ross. He’s slippery, but he’s got a pattern. Check the usual haunts.”

As the team dispersed, you caught up to Olivia. “Do you think we’ll get him this time?”

Her expression softened for just a moment, a fleeting crack in her armor. “We have to.”

Hours passed in a blur of dead ends and frustration. Ross had gone underground. Fin and Rollins had come up empty at every location they searched. You could see the tension building in Olivia’s shoulders, the weight of the case pressing down on her. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the squad room began to empty out, officers heading home or grabbing a few hours of sleep before the next shift. But you and Olivia remained, as always, locked in the hunt.

You sat across from her at her desk, the two of you going over case notes, when Olivia suddenly slammed a file shut, frustration bubbling over. “We’re missing something,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

You watched her carefully. “We’ll find him, Liv. We always do.”

She looked up at you, her eyes softening at the sound of your voice. There it was again, that unspoken connection—just beneath the surface, always there, always waiting. “You should go home. Get some rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

“I’ll go when you go,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

A small smile tugged at her lips, the first one you’d seen all day. “Stubborn as ever, huh?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “It’s one of my many talents.”

The brief flicker of amusement in her eyes warmed your chest, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by the heavy burden of the case. Olivia’s hand moved to the file in front of her, fingers tracing the edge of a photograph of the victim, her eyes distant. “She was so young,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

You stood and moved around her desk, standing beside her. You didn’t say anything—there was nothing to say that would make it better. But you placed a hand on her shoulder, offering silent support. She glanced up at you, and for a moment, something passed between you, something raw and unguarded.

Her gaze flicked to your hand on her shoulder, and you quickly pulled away, clearing your throat. The tension crackled in the air like static electricity, the pull between you undeniable. But, like always, it was left unsaid.

Before either of you could say anything more, Rollins burst through the doors of the squad room, her face flushed with urgency. “We’ve got something. A tip came in—Ross was spotted at a motel down in Hell’s Kitchen. We’ve got units headed there now.”

Olivia shot to her feet, all traces of fatigue gone. “Let’s go.”

You were already moving, adrenaline pumping through your veins as the three of you rushed out of the precinct, sirens blaring as you sped through the darkened streets of Manhattan.

The motel was a run-down, seedy place tucked away in the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen. The kind of place where people disappeared. As you approached, your heart pounded in your chest. This was it—your chance to bring Ross in before he slipped away again.

“Units have the perimeter secured,” Rollins reported, her voice low as the three of you approached the motel doors, weapons drawn. “He’s holed up in room 214.”

Olivia nodded, her face a mask of focus. “Let’s do this.”

You took position beside her, exchanging a quick glance. In that brief second, the rest of the world fell away. It was just you and her, two parts of the same machine, moving together without needing to speak. The trust between you was absolute.

Olivia knocked on the door, her voice authoritative. “NYPD! Gavin Ross, open up!”

Silence.

Your grip tightened on your weapon, your pulse quickening. Every second felt like an eternity. Then, suddenly, the door flew open, and Ross bolted.

“Stop!” Olivia shouted, but Ross didn’t listen.

You sprang into action, chasing him down a narrow alley behind the motel. The sound of your footsteps echoed in the confined space as you closed the distance between you. You could hear Olivia right behind you, her breath labored but determined.

Ross darted around a corner, but you were faster. You lunged forward, tackling him to the ground. He struggled, but you pinned him down, twisting his arm behind his back as you slapped the cuffs on him.

Olivia was beside you in an instant, her eyes blazing with triumph. “You’re done, Ross. You’re not getting away this time.”

Ross spat at her feet, but Olivia didn’t flinch. She stood tall, her presence commanding as always, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. This was what you did, what you both did—together.

Back at the precinct, the team was abuzz with the victory. Ross was in custody, the case was wrapped, and Lily Sampson’s family would finally have justice. It was a rare moment of celebration in a job that so often ended in heartbreak.

As the adrenaline began to wear off, you found yourself back at Olivia’s office. She was sitting at her desk, her expression thoughtful, but there was a quiet satisfaction in her eyes.

You knocked softly on the doorframe. “Mind if I come in?”

She looked up, a small smile playing on her lips. “Always.”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. There was a comfortable silence between you, the weight of the case finally lifting. But just as you began to settle into that brief moment of reprieve, your phone buzzed. The precinct’s alert system flashed across the screen—a new development. Something big.

Olivia’s phone buzzed at the same time. She looked at you, her brow furrowing. “What is it?”

You glanced at your phone. “Ross’s prints came up on another crime scene. It just came in.”

Olivia’s face darkened, the weariness of the day replaced by a sharp edge of concern. “Another crime scene? When?”

You scrolled through the alert. “Two days ago. The body of a woman found in a park in Queens. Her face wasn’t recognizable, but the prints match Ross.”

A heavy silence settled between you. You thought you had him, thought this was finally over, but it seemed Ross had been busy before you caught him. Another victim. Another life lost.

Olivia rubbed her temples, her voice low but full of resolve. “We need to talk to him again. If there’s another victim, we can’t afford to wait.”

You nodded, already standing up. “I’ll grab the case file on the new victim. Let’s go make sure he doesn’t slither out of this one.”

The precinct was quieter now, the late hour thinning out most of the officers and detectives, but as you and Olivia moved with purpose toward the holding cells, it felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders. Cases like this were never clean, never simple. They stuck to you, left scars that couldn’t be healed.

When you reached the interrogation room, Ross was slouched in his chair, his wrists shackled to the table, his face twisted into a smug smile that made your stomach turn. The guy had no remorse—he never had. He glanced up lazily as you and Olivia entered, his expression daring you to do something.

Olivia didn’t waste any time. “We found your prints at a second crime scene, Gavin. Two days ago. Another woman dead. You think this is over?”

He shrugged. “You got me on one, Benson. But two? You sure about that?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Olivia. This was typical of predators like Ross—never give anything up unless they had to. His cocky demeanor only made the tension between you and Olivia grow thicker, the unspoken frustration of dealing with another monster who thought he could outsmart the system.

Olivia stepped closer, her voice low and dangerous. “We’re sure, Gavin. And so is the DA. This isn’t just about Lily anymore. You’re going down for both, and we’ll make sure you rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life.”

Ross’s smirk faltered slightly, but he leaned forward, his eyes glittering with something dark and twisted. “You really think you know me, Benson? You think you know everything I’ve done?” He chuckled, a sound that made your blood boil. “There’s more. And you won’t even scratch the surface.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched. You could feel the anger radiating off her in waves, but she didn’t give in to his provocation. Instead, she motioned for you to step outside with her.

Once in the hallway, you could see the tension in her posture, the way her fingers drummed against her side. You knew what she was thinking—this case was spiraling, and the more you learned, the darker it became.

“He’s taunting us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but her frustration clear.

You nodded, your mind racing. “He’s hiding something. We need to dig deeper—check for other unsolved cases, anything that fits his MO.”

Olivia turned to you, her eyes intense, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to slow. You were standing closer than usual, the small space between you filled with that ever-present tension. Her eyes flicked over your face, lingering for just a moment too long.

You swallowed, feeling the pull, that undeniable chemistry that had been simmering for years. “We’ll get him,” you said, your voice softer than intended.

Olivia held your gaze for a second longer before nodding, her expression softening just a fraction. “We always do.”

The next day passed in a blur of information gathering and connecting dots. You worked tirelessly alongside Olivia, poring over files, cross-referencing old cases, and piecing together Ross’s movements. What you uncovered was chilling.

There were at least three other unsolved cases over the past year that matched Ross’s MO—each victim a young woman, each one lured to an isolated location and murdered brutally. The cases had slipped through the cracks, but now, with Ross in custody, it was clear he had been hunting for far longer than anyone had realized.

You and Olivia sat across from one another at a table covered in photos, maps, and reports. Your shoulders brushed occasionally as you leaned in to point out connections, the closeness sending small shocks through you. It was nothing new—this proximity—but lately, it felt heavier, more charged.

As you pointed to a spot on the map, showing where one of the victims had been found, Olivia’s hand brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away immediately, and your eyes met, lingering just a beat too long. There it was again—that unspoken electricity that had crackled between you for years.

You cleared your throat, pulling your hand back and trying to refocus. “If we push the DA, we might be able to tie Ross to these other cases. Build a stronger profile.”

Olivia nodded, her voice a little quieter than before. “You’re right. Let’s get the detectives on it.”

But even as you both continued to talk strategy, the air between you felt different. Something had shifted in that moment of accidental touch, something that neither of you wanted to fully acknowledge.

It was late again, the precinct emptying out as you and Olivia prepared for one final push. Ross had been formally charged for Lily’s murder and the second victim, but the investigation was far from over. You both knew there were more victims, more pieces to the puzzle that needed to be solved.

You found yourself sitting on the edge of Olivia’s desk as she reviewed the updated case files, the soft light from her desk lamp casting a warm glow over the room. There was a comfortable silence between you, the weight of the day’s work settling into your bones, but there was also something else—something that made your chest tighten every time you looked at her.

Olivia glanced up at you, her lips curving into a small, tired smile. “You’re still here.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at the sound of her voice. “I said I’d go when you go.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze holding yours for a moment before she spoke again. “You always have my back, don’t you?”

There was something in her voice—something softer, more vulnerable. It caught you off guard.

“Always,” you replied, your voice equally soft. The word felt heavier than usual, like it carried more than just professional loyalty.

Olivia leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. The tension that usually held her so tightly seemed to slip away, and for the first time that night, she looked almost relaxed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the intensity of her words hanging between you. For a moment, the case, the precinct, the entire world seemed to fade away. All that remained was the two of you, the unspoken bond that had always been there but had never been acknowledged.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but before the words could come, the sound of your phone buzzing on the desk shattered the moment.

You both blinked, the spell broken. Olivia sat up straighter, her usual mask of composure slipping back into place as she glanced at your phone. “Looks like you’ve got a message.”

You grabbed the phone, glancing down at the screen. It was a notification from Fin—Ross’s lawyer had arrived at the precinct, and they were prepping for another round of questioning in the morning.

Olivia stood, her expression shifting back to business as usual. “Looks like tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

You nodded, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Yeah. Guess we should call it a night.”

As you both gathered your things, the tension between you returned, heavier than ever. But just like always, it remained unspoken.

As you walked out of the precinct together, the cool night air hitting your skin, you stole one last glance at Olivia. There was something in her eyes, something you couldn’t quite read, but before you could dwell on it, she gave you a small smile.

“Good night,” she said softly.

“Good night, Olivia,” you replied, your heart aching with everything you couldn’t say.

And as you both went your separate ways, the weight of silence followed you, lingering in the air like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

[maddiesentmehere118]

Together for Christmas

Description: You and Rafael host his mother, Lucia, in the apartment on Christmas Eve. While waiting for them to arrive, you briefly reminisce on the past.

Rafael Barba x Reader

Word count: 1,802

Warnings: MDNI 18+, descriptions of smut, death and grief, brief self-blame

Masterlist

______________________________________________________________

Christmas Eve rolled around and you and Rafael had made plans for his mother to come over. This last week was busy for the two of you. The squad had wrapped up a few cases that were ready to be sent to trial, Rafael had his fair share of work in the courtroom, and there were a few cases that weren’t worth taking on a new lead until the start of the new year. 

This year, Christmas was the last thing on your mind. Rafael hadn’t brought it up, but you assumed that you’d spend it together like last year. But after the incident at the precinct, you didn’t think there would be any more together between the two of you. In your maudlin state, you were dead set on calling Liv and requesting a transfer the next morning. Thus, with the culminating chain of events, neither of you thought to go out and buy a small turkey or ham in time for it to defrost after you made up. The only saving grace you had at the moment was that you had Christmas done on Cyber Monday back in November, preventing a last-minute scramble for gifts. 

Thankfully, Lucia was not in a fuss over the ordeal and suggested that the dinner should be small and simple instead. So you collectively agreed on a Cuban pork roast, in which there had to be sides and you couldn’t just let there be two since you grew up in a family that went big for holiday meals. So you made more than enough for leftovers for the two of you and for his Mamá to take home. So whilst Rafael was across town picking up his Mamá from Brooklyn, you were manning the kitchen to finish the side dishes and desserts, reminiscing about how far you have come from last year’s holiday season. 

Around this time last year, you first met the woman when Rafael invited you to tag along with him to his humble family Thanksgiving with his Mamá and Abuela. Olivia was with Cassidy, Rollin’s mom was visiting, Fin was with his son and his husband, and Carisi was off doing traditional Italian things with his large family. 

That left you alone. 

When you visited his office to drop off some files the Friday before the holiday, the lawyer and you engaged in small talk, which led to him asking about your plans for the upcoming week. By the time you had walked out of the DA’s office, you had plans to meet Rafael’s family and share a dinner with them. 

It was a wonderful time. His Abuela, Catalina, just loved you and was talking your ear off about anything and everything. And after a few glasses of red wine throughout the night, you and Rafael both found yourselves on his couch, hips grinding desperately, lips moving hurriedly, and hands roaming in wonder. 

The two of you spent the rest of the remaining three-day weekend going at it. You christened the apartment- in a multitude of positions. And Rafael Barba, the man whose mouth could persuade a jury to indict a man with little direct, physical evidence, was just as skilled with his mouth outside the courtroom.

The first time Rafael went down on you was the first time you had cum on a man’s face. All of your flings in the past were either selfish or didn’t know what they were doing. For example, quite a few had taken the term faster as a sign to ram their fingers into your heat harder instead of a steady pumping. One partner you had tried to tell to curl his finger upwards and rub back and forth, but he interpreted it as angling the fingers up and jabbing into the bundle of nerves instead of massaging it. 

Rafael, however, knew how to listen to instructions on what you liked and paid attention to your body cues. The way your thighs shook when his tongue was flicking at just the right spot on your clit, how your walls squeezed around his fingers when he grazed his teeth on your clit, and the way you moaned and tugged his hair when he massaged that spongy top wall before you came on his face.

 And that was only the first time. Before he folded you in half, he was sure to draw another orgasm from his mouth before giving you his cock. After that first round of sex, you were for once actually excited to suck his cock because it didn’t feel like a required chore.

When you returned to work Monday, you missed the fact that he had left a love bite right under your jaw. With a snicker and interrogation of who you got it from (to which Amanda got nothing but a ‘wouldn’t you like to know’), you borrowed Rollins’ concealer and powder to cover it since you do not routinely wear anything other than eye makeup. 

 Then Barba rolled in a few hours later to deliver the news about a break in the case via a new witness that had come forward. You clicked the pieces together right away as he glanced at you with a smirk. The bastard had deliberately worn a deep purple tie and pocket square to match the mark he left on your upper neck. He passed you, dropping a simple comment that drove you insane. 

“Looks like we’re matching today, detective.”

There had always been some unspoken tension before then, and once that rubber band had snapped, the two of you knew it would be hard to return to normal. Hence falling into a routine fueled by sex, which slowly evolved into one of hidden romance and companionship. 

Every weekend up until Christmas, Rafael had invited you to come with him to see his Abuela and Mamá, citing that you brightened up both of their days. It wasn’t hard to say yes because you too liked them. It was fun to learn about their lives and more about Rafie growing up.

 You had learned through your visits that Catalina’s favorite flower was a white lily. So when you were dragged along for Christmas, you had brought an arrangement of white lilies with red carnations and roses. She had looked at Rafael and stated the following, not knowing you knew Spanish due to it being your minor during your studies in Criminal Justice.

“Será mejor que te cases con ella.”

You better marry her.

You and Rafael had gotten into a disagreement over sending her to an assisted living home in late January. He was worried about her health and being lonely, while you wanted to respect her wishes and pushed for a home health nurse instead. That way Lucia could keep her job as principal and still watch after her at night. You had even offered to help look for apartment buildings that had an elevator since part of his worries were about the stairs and his Abuela falling again. But you stayed out of the family matter after he asked for your perspective and instead listened to his venting over his mother and grandmother fighting him over the issue. 

It was equally as heartbreaking when you received the news that Catalina had passed away from a heart attack. Rafael took it hard and personal. He blamed himself for her passing and thought he should have never pushed for her to leave her home after 40 years. 

With nothing but a small graveside funeral, you stood next to Oliva and the team, wishing to be by his side as tears slowly fell down his face. Lucia had caught on that this arrangement of yours was not known by your coworkers, so she never mentioned the past few weeks and how you had gotten attached to Cataline. Luckily, you were able to sit by him at the luncheon, keeping a foot wrapped around his ankle to let him know you were there. That night he clung to you like his lifeline, falling asleep on your chest as you combed your fingers through his hair.

Every Sunday since, Rafael and you have made it a tradition to stop by her grave with a bouquet. And you each take turns talking about your lives and each other, sparing the more gruesome details about your lines of work. She was the grandmother that you never had, considering both of yours had passed when you were no older than five.

On days when it was hard, you went to her grave and talked to her. There were quite a few times where you sat on the ground eating lunch, enjoying the quiet, and talking to her about what was troubling you or what was going on with her grandson. You grieved what you wished you could have had with her. 

Rafael caught you doing this one day. You thought he would have been upset, but instead, clad in his three-piece suit, he lifted his trousers above his ankles and sat down. You had confided that you had been doing this for some time now, and he confessed he also visited her when times felt tough. He had also shared that she believed he would be a Judge someday, and you had leaned on his shoulder, holding his fisted hands while he cried softly.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the door opens and brings you out of your thoughts. 

“We're here, hermosa."

"Merry Christmas! It’s great to see you again, darling- it smells great in here.” Lucia says as you rush over to grab the large tote of gifts in her hands so she can take her winter gear off, placing it by the Christmas tree that got put up at the last minute.

“Merry Christmas! Thanks for coming, I know it was kind of last minute, but hopefully everything is okay. He did the pork, so at least that’ll be good.”

She shakes her head as her son passes you, placing a kiss on your cheek on his way to drop off the dish she brought. 

“I don’t know what she is talking about,” she remarks to her son before turning to you “I've only ate great food of yours.”

“And she keeps me well fed.”

You laugh at Rafael as you gather around the kitchen. Lucia grabs you into a hug before letting you go. Rafael slides into place, wrapping his arm and finding its way around your waist. And you don’t miss the way that Lucia glances at you, her face showing contemplation. You can tell she is trying to hold back a comment, so you decide to ask her about what she’s thinking. 

“I see my son has finally manned up and asked you to be his girlfriend.”

You laugh at her blunt comment, turning slightly to place your hand on his chest. His face is one of fake annoyance, his signature grin betraying him as it pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

“He sure did. Best Christmas gift ever.”

“You have no idea, cariño.”

[rmytears]

HOW NOT TO KEEP A RELATIONSHIP SECRET. calex one-shot.

SUMMARY: Casey's day takes an unexpected turn when SVU’s newest detective develops a crush on Alex and, for some reason, asks her for help. Determined to keep their relationship a secret, Casey tries to deflect… only to somehow end up giving him accidental dating advice.

The 16th precinct hummed with its characteristic chaos—a symphony of ringing phones, heated debates over case files, and the persistent whir of an overworked coffee maker that hadn't been properly cleaned since the Obama administration. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burnt coffee, a scent that had become as much a part of the building as the worn linoleum floors and the flickering fluorescent lights that cast everything in an unflattering pallor.

Casey Novak sat at her desk, surrounded by towering stacks of discovery materials that threatened to topple at any moment. Her reading glasses were perched precariously on the edge of her nose, and her auburn hair was twisted into a messy bun that had gradually migrated sideways throughout the morning. She was only half-listening to the ongoing debate between Fin and Olivia about lunch options—Fin advocating for the new Thai place around the corner, while Olivia stubbornly defended her usual deli sandwich.

"I'm telling you," Fin insisted, gesturing with a case file, "they've got these dumplings that'll change your life."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "The last time you said that about food, I couldn't taste anything for three days."

Casey smiled to herself, letting their familiar bickering fade into background noise as she focused on the affidavit in front of her. The words were starting to blur together—something about chain of custody that she'd read four times without really absorbing—when a shadow fell across her desk.

Detective Ryan Callahan stood there, all six feet of earnest awkwardness, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous teenager at his first school dance. He was new to SVU, barely six months on the job, with the kind of fresh-faced enthusiasm that hadn't yet been tempered by the harsh realities of their work. In the field, he was surprisingly competent—good instincts, quick on his feet, and genuinely empathetic with victims. But socially... well, that was another matter entirely.

His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it—a nervous habit Casey had noticed during particularly stressful cases. Today, his tie was slightly askew, and there was a coffee stain on his otherwise pristine white shirt. He had the look of someone who had spent considerable time rehearsing what he was about to say, only to forget every word the moment he opened his mouth.

Casey raised an eyebrow, setting down her pen. "Callahan, what's up?"

He cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. "Uh, so, I had a question."

She waited, watching as he fidgeted with his badge, clipping and unclipping it from his belt. The silence stretched between them like taffy, growing more awkward by the second.

Finally, he scratched the back of his neck—another nervous tell—and said, "About Alex."

Casey blinked, her heart doing a complicated gymnastics routine in her chest. "Alex?"

"Yeah." He shuffled closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, I figured since you two spend a lot of time together, you'd know... if she's, you know, seeing anyone."

Casey felt her world tilt sideways. Oh, this was bad.

Very, very bad.

Callahan, completely oblivious to the internal crisis he had just triggered, pressed on with the determination of someone walking straight off a cliff. "I just—I don't know. She's incredible. Smart, sharp, kind of terrifying but, like, in a hot way? Not that you need me to tell you that, obviously, you know her better than I do. Which is why I was hoping you'd, uh, help me out here."

Casey's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, performing an impressive impression of a fish out of water. "Help you out?" she repeated, her voice hitting a pitch she hadn't reached since high school choir.

He nodded, eyes bright with hope. "You think she'd go for a guy like me?"

Casey, who had built her career on her ability to think quickly under pressure, who had stared down serial killers and sociopaths without breaking a sweat, who had once delivered an entire closing argument with a sprained ankle and didn't miss a beat, suddenly found herself completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

Because here she was, sitting at her desk on a Tuesday morning, being asked for dating advice about her girlfriend by a man who had no idea he was essentially asking for tips on how to seduce someone who was very much taken.

By her.

The irony was almost poetic.

Swallowing hard, she forced what she hoped was a professional smile but probably looked more like a grimace. "Listen, Callahan, if you're interested in Alex, maybe you should ask her yourself." The words tasted like betrayal in her mouth, but what else could she say?

Callahan's face fell slightly. "Yeah, but I don't want to come on too strong. I figured you might have, like, some insight? Maybe you could, I don't know..." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice further, "put in a good word?"

Casey let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled cough, drawing curious glances from nearby desks. Her mind raced through possible responses, each more absurd than the last. She could tell him the truth—but no, they'd agreed to keep their relationship private, at least for now. She could make up some reason why he shouldn't pursue Alex—but that felt dishonest, and besides, what reason could she give that wouldn't raise more questions?

"I—uh—I'm not really—"

"Just a little nudge," he pressed, his enthusiasm growing in inverse proportion to her comfort level. "Like, what does she like? Coffee? Flowers? Should I be, you know, mysterious and aloof? Or direct? I've been reading this dating advice blog, and it says women like confidence, but also vulnerability, but also strength, but also sensitivity..." He trailed off, looking at her expectantly.

Casey stared at him, her brain screaming in at least three different languages. This was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, except she wasn't just watching—she was somehow both the conductor and the person tied to the tracks.

And yet, instead of shutting it down, instead of making an excuse and escaping with what little dignity she had left, she found herself muttering, "She likes espresso. No sugar."

The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she'd made a terrible mistake. Callahan's face lit up like Times Square at Christmas.

"See? That's helpful! Anything else?"

Casey internally cursed herself in all the languages she knew, and a few she didn't.

Two days later, Casey was seriously reconsidering her career choices. Maybe she should've become a tax attorney. Or a librarian. Or literally anything that wouldn't have led to her current predicament, watching her girlfriend's unwitting suitor execute what had to be the most painfully earnest courtship attempt in NYPD history.

The precinct had become a stage for Callahan's increasingly elaborate gestures. Every time Alex entered the building—her sharp heels clicking against the floor, her presence commanding attention without effort—there he was, materializing like a well-meaning ghost with perfectly timed offerings.

"Just happened to grab an extra espresso," he'd say, placing the steaming cup on her desk with the careful precision of someone handling evidence. The coffee was always from that expensive place three blocks over, the one with the pretentious baristas and lines out the door. Casey knew for a fact he'd started getting there twenty minutes early just to beat the morning rush.

Alex, for her part, had progressed through a fascinating spectrum of reactions. At first, it was just a slightly quirked eyebrow, the barest hint of confusion crossing her otherwise composed features. Then came the studying—those piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly whenever Callahan appeared, like she was processing evidence in a particularly puzzling case.

The coffee was just the beginning. Suddenly, Callahan was everywhere. Holding doors open with an eager "After you, Counselor." Casually mentioning cases he knew she'd won—"That Martinez cross-examination? Legendary stuff." He'd even started wearing better suits, though his ties remained perpetually crooked in a way that made Casey's fingers itch to fix them.

And then there was the day he'd watched Alex verbally demolish defense attorney Trevor Langan in court. Casey had been there too, ostensibly to observe the trial, but really because Alex in court was a sight to behold. The way she moved, the precise timing of her questions, the subtle shift in her voice when she went in for the kill—it was like watching a master artist at work.

Callahan had been sitting next to Casey, presumably there to learn trial techniques. But halfway through Alex's cross-examination, Casey heard him whisper, "Holy shit," with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

After court, he'd caught up with Alex in the hallway. "That was incredible," he'd gushed. "The way you cornered him on the timeline inconsistencies? And then that thing with the phone records? Pure genius."

Alex had paused, tilted her head slightly, and given Casey a look that clearly said, 'We need to talk.'

Because that's when it clicked. The coffee. The compliments. The way Callahan's eyes followed Alex around the precinct like a lovesick puppy. And most damningly, the fact that he seemed to know exactly how Alex liked her coffee.

There was only one person who could have told him that.

The look Alex gave Casey in that moment promised a conversation that would be neither brief nor comfortable.

"You are going to explain to me," Alex said later that day, her voice carrying that dangerous calm that made hardened criminals confess on the stand, "why my girlfriend is helping a man flirt with me."

They were in Alex's office, where the late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the polished desk. The door had clicked shut with a finality that made Casey's stomach drop.

Casey, perched against the desk, tried for casual. "Okay, first of all, not my fault."

Alex arched an eyebrow, a gesture that could have been patented for its ability to convey volumes of skepticism without a single word.

"No?"

Casey groaned, running a hand through her hair. "He asked me if you were single! What was I supposed to say?"

Alex folded her arms, her blazer—charcoal grey today, impeccably tailored—shifting with the movement. "You could have said 'no.' That's generally how people answer that question when they are, in fact, not single."

The sarcasm in her voice could have stripped paint.

Casey flinched. "Okay, yeah, fair, but he caught me off guard, and I didn't want to, you know..." She gestured vaguely. "Out us."

Alex inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose—a rare display of exasperation from someone who usually maintained perfect composure. "And your next brilliant move was... what? Coaching him?"

"I didn't coach him," Casey protested, though her voice lacked conviction. "I just—he wouldn't drop it, and I panicked, and now he's bringing you coffee, and—" She threw up her hands in surrender. "Look, I didn't think it would work!"

Alex let out a laugh that held absolutely no humor. "Well, it did. And now I have a detective attempting to woo me with caffeine and admiration for my cross-examinations." She stepped closer, her heels silent on the carpeted floor. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain professional authority when someone looks at you like you've hung the moon every time you object to hearsay?"

Casey winced. "... He did say that thing about the Martinez case, huh?"

Alex leveled her with a look that could have melted steel. "Yes. He did. In fact, he's apparently been studying my old cases. This morning, he quoted my closing argument from the Wilson trial. Word for word."

A beat of silence filled the office.

Then, Alex took another step forward. Then another. Her movements were deliberate, predatory, like a cat cornering its prey. Casey found herself pressing back against the desk, suddenly very aware of how the temperature in the room seemed to have risen several degrees.

"So, tell me," Alex murmured, close enough now that Casey could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle that made coherent thought increasingly difficult. "How exactly were you planning to resolve this, Counselor?"

The way Alex said 'Counselor' should have been illegal in at least three states.

Casey cleared her throat, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. "I figured eventually he'd... move on?"

Alex's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile but promised all sorts of interesting consequences. "Mm. I have a better idea."

Before Casey could process what was happening, Alex's hand had slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, pulling her in for a kiss that was definitely not appropriate for office hours. It was slow, deliberate, thorough—the kind of kiss that made Casey forget every legal precedent she'd ever memorized.

When Alex finally pulled back, Casey's brain had officially gone offline. Her lips tingled, and she was pretty sure she'd forgotten how to form sentences in English.

"I—" Casey started, then promptly lost whatever she was going to say when she caught the look in Alex's eyes.

Alex smirked, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Let's see if Callahan still has questions after that."

And with that, Alex turned and opened the office door.

Straight into what appeared to be half the SVU squad.

Olivia, Fin, and Elliot stood there, wearing expressions that ranged from surprised (Olivia) to amused (Fin) to mildly uncomfortable but supportive (Elliot).

Olivia blinked. "Oh."

Fin's grin could have powered half of Manhattan. "Damn. Thought you two were just bad at flirting. Turns out you were just sneaky."

Elliot shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Honestly? We should've seen it coming. Nobody spends that much time 'reviewing case files' after hours."

And because the universe wasn't done with them yet, Callahan chose that exact moment to walk by. He stopped, coffee cup in hand—probably another perfectly prepared espresso—and took in the scene. His eyes moved from Alex's slightly smudged lipstick to Casey's thoroughly kissed expression, and understanding dawned on his face with almost audible clarity.

"Well," he muttered, "that explains... a lot." He paused, then added with a weak laugh, "Like why you knew her coffee order."

Casey groaned, burying her face in her hands. Alex, somehow still maintaining her composure despite everything, simply adjusted her blazer with precise movements.

"Well," Olivia drawled, her grin growing wider by the second, "this is fun."

"I hate all of you," Casey mumbled through her fingers.

Alex, fighting what looked suspiciously like genuine amusement, reached over and laced their fingers together.

"Too late now, darling," she murmured, squeezing Casey's hand. "Might as well own it."

And as Casey looked at the team's smug, knowing faces—Olivia's warmth, Fin's mischief, Elliot's awkward acceptance, and even Callahan's embarrassed but genuine smile—she realized there was no winning this.

But maybe, she thought as Alex's thumb traced small circles on her hand, winning wasn't the point.

At least she had Alex.

And really good espresso.

Two weeks later, Callahan left a peace offering on both their desks: gift cards to that expensive coffee place he'd been frequenting. The note attached read: "Sorry for the awkward. But in my defense, your girlfriend is terrifying in court. - RC"

Alex kept the note pinned to her bulletin board, right next to the conviction record that had so impressed him.

And if anyone noticed that Casey started wearing her ties a little crooked, or that Alex's lipstick needed touching up more often after their "case review meetings," well...

Some things were better left unsaid.

Even in a building full of detectives.